


Reimagined: The Philosopher's Stone

by Ardently_Queer



Series: Hogwarts Reimagined [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Character, Autistic Harry Potter, Autistic Hermione Granger, Autistic Neville Longbottom, Background Relationships, Black Hermione Granger, FREQUENTLY UPDATED, Female Harry, Female Harry Potter, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts First Year, Indian Harry Potter, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Other, Social Issues, The Golden Trio, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Female Harry Potter, Trans Girl Harry Potter, Trans Harry, Trans Harry Potter, Trans Male Character, cuddly queer feels, recovery from abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 71,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27186892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardently_Queer/pseuds/Ardently_Queer
Summary: My intent when I started out was to breathe new life into something I've loved for many years. I don't like what the original author stands for, I don't like that she took what could have been beautiful and injected so much racism and other bigotry into stories for children.So I made this my own. Initially it stays fairly close to the plotline but diverges after the first few chapters. I shaped Harry from my own experiences and the way I had always related to the character, and gave character to what had previously been nothing but cardboard cutouts. Essentially this is me trying to bring back the magic of the world, the way it should have been. I know this will not appeal to everyone, but I hope queer people like myself, and people of colour hurt by the racism and antisemitism of the original author, will find some joy in it.There are no romantic relationships in this book as the characters are too young for it to be written believably. Look for it later. I've tagged it however, as I write romantic relationships around the core friendships between characters and that starts earlier.A note that many characters have had their names changed because of original content racism.
Relationships: Hermione Ndiaye-Granger/Luna Lovegood/Rhiannon Potter
Series: Hogwarts Reimagined [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984553
Comments: 130
Kudos: 103





	1. The Girl Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: Child abuse, panic, isolation, gender dysphoria, panic attacks, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, use of homophobic and transphobic slurs, bullying.

Mr and Mrs Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, _thank-you very much_ .  
Except, you've already read this part. You know all about the Dursleys, the firm Mr Dursley directs (Grunnings) and his oversized moustache. You've already read about Mrs Dursley and her penchant for spying on her neighbours; and how they both pretend she doesn't have a sister. You probably even remember the owls in daytime, the revelry, the sudden appearance of cloaked strangers in the streets. There's every chance you remember the delivery of a tiny newborn with a lightning scar to the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive; by an oversized man on a flying motorcycle and his companions - Professor McGonagall formerly in the shape of a bespectacled tabby cat, and a flamboyantly violet-robed wizard by the name of Professor Dumbledore.

So let's skip ahead some, to the story you _don't_ know. Or at least, a story you know with a character you may not know so well.

Almost ten years passed in the wake of a dark wizard's death, and life at number four, Privet Drive, continued in the determinedly ebullient manner of wealthy suburban families ignoring facts they don't like. The weak English sun rose on the neat garden, rows of pictures hung precisely equidistant from each-other on the walls - depicting the one and only Dudley Dursley's transformation from a round, demanding baby in a variety of ugly baby hats to a round, demanding pre-teenage boy with a variety of expensive new toys; and all in all there was no sign to any visitor that the Dursleys sheltered more than one child under their roof.

Yet another there was, enjoying the brief quiet as she gradually accustomed herself to waking. The peace was not long undisturbed, however, as her Aunt Petunia soon made her presence known; and her shrill voice was the first jarring sound of Harry's day.  
"Up! Get up! Now!"  
Idly, Harry considered feigning sleep for a little longer but decided quickly that would only bring more trouble. Aunt Petunia's footsteps receded and Harry rolled out of the narrow bed, dragging the covers up into some semblance of made and then rummaging in a drawer for clothes. Brief recollections of her dream drifted across her mind, and Harry smiled. She didn't quite remember what it was about, except that there'd been a flying motorbike. She had a strange sensation that she'd had the dream before.

Aunt Petunia returned to the door, jarring Harry again with a sharp knock.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded, a note of impatience entering her voice.

"Almost," Harry responded quietly, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features at the sound of her own voice.

"What was that?" Aunt Petunia snapped, clearly Harry had spoken too quietly to hear. Aunt Petunia hated mumbling. "I said, almost." Harry replied again, now more audible.

"Well, hurry up, boy," - at this, Harry flinched -" I want you to watch the bacon. And I'll have your hide if you let it burn, you hear me? Everything has to be _perfect_ for Dudders' birthday."

Harry groaned – inaudibly, she'd thought.  
Clearly not. "No whinging from you. Dressed and in the kitchen, two minutes." Aunt Petunia said, with an air of finality about her tone.

Harry decided that didn't merit a response. She dressed quickly, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking at anything as the day's usual weight of discomfort settled on her thin shoulders. And Dudley's birthday, how could she have forgotten? She gently removed a spider from one ugly purple sock and put it on, looking at herself in the cracked mirror that hung on the inside of her door with trepidation.

Her impression was one of very wide, verdant hazel eyes in a thin face before wrenching her gaze away and making her way out to the kitchen. The table was laden with Dudley's presents, and Harry cast them a look of longing as she passed them on her way over to the stove. Seemed her cousin had got the new computer he wanted, and the racing bike. Why exactly Dudley wanted a racing bike Harry had no idea; as he was overweight and hated exercise almost as much as he hated Harry. Maybe he wanted to even out the speed advantage she had over his gang in their weekly episodes of Harry-hunting?

Either way, it didn't matter. If Dudley punched Harry, Uncle Vernon would congratulate him on a good swing. If he was bored, his favourite punching bag was always stuck right here in the cupboard under the stairs.

It probably had something to do with her residence in a closet, but Harry had always been small and thin for her age – not something she really minded, except that in Dudley's hand-me-down clothes she looked even smaller and thinner than she really was. Harry had a delicate face that would have been heart-shaped if she was healthier, thin legs ("like sticks," Dudley had so eloquently commented last time he attempted to break them) and a thick mane of unruly black hair that almost reached her shoulders, shot through with reddish highlights. Her eyes were a brilliant green with a coppery ring around the irises, set in her dusky olive face they really were her most striking feature; magnified as they were by crooked glasses mended at the bridge and hinges with tape. Aside from her eyes, the only thing Harry really liked about her own appearance was the scar on her forehead, shaped like forked lightning as it strikes earth. She'd seen it every time she looked in the mirror for as long as she could remember. According to the Dursleys, she'd got it in the car crash when her parents died and hadn't questioned it since. _Don't ask questions –_ the first rule to peace and quiet in the Dursley house.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning the bacon. "Petunia, cut this boy's hair would you? He looks like a girl." he commented by way of a greeting, pitching his voice over the crackling bacon and other morning clamour. Harry winced at the usual epithet of 'boy' but took the unintended boost. This was a weekly occurrence, although usually with more volume. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of her classmates combined, but it didn't seem to make a difference - her hair grew back quickly, as thick and unruly as it had been before Aunt Petunia hacked it off.  
Harry was scrambling eggs and frying the hash browns by the time Dudley lumbered down to the kitchen. Dudley resembled his father - short nose, thickset, not much neck and hands perpetually curled almost into fists. His hair was smooth, thick and blonde, slicked neatly over one eyebrow in a way Harry's never would. Aunt Petunia commented he looked like a baby angel. Privately, Harry snickered and thought Dudley's hair looked so mismatched it appeared to be a wig.

Ignoring Dudley petulantly counting presents – apparently there was less than last year, not that anyone except Dudley would notice – Harry set the plates of eggs, hash brown and bacon on the table, a difficult feat given the sheer number of assorted boxes and objects piled upon it. In placing Uncle Vernon's breakfast she knocked something off – small and round, probably a light-up yo-yo given that Dudley had been demanding one for a solid month. Luckily her hands were now free, and she caught the package before it hit the floor. Uncle Vernon cuffed her over the ear, hard, and she returned it to the table with shaking hands. Well, Harry had quick reflexes - that was one thing she had going for her. She'd have had a lot worse than a smack over the ear had that present actually hit the ground. Harry set herself at the foot of the table, far away from the oncoming Hurricane Dudley tantrum that was brewing over there being less presents than before; and began wolfing down her breakfast slowed only by Aunt Petunia's shrill reminder to _chew your food, boy!_

Harry's aunt was then distracted by the disruptive ring of the telephone and she left the kitchen to answer it. Her conversation was inaudible to Harry over the sounds of her uncle and cousin bantering, some other sad excuse for Dudley's spoilt antics by what little Harry actually picked up. Her attention was drawn by Aunt Petunia's pinched expression growing sourer by the moment, and she flinched when her aunt hung up the phone with a resounding clatter. "Bad news, Vernon, Mrs Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him." she said grimly.

Dudley's mouth dropped open in horror and Harry looked away from the revolting sight of his mashed food, though her heart beat a little faster in anticipation. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him out to new hamburger bars, adventure parks or the cinema. Every year Harry was left behind with Mrs Figg, an old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. Mrs Figg was nice enough, but the house was filled with an unpleasant miasma of cabbage and Mrs Figg always had some angry new cat ready to sharpen its' claws on Harry's legs.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, casting a furious glance in Harry's direction as though somehow she'd made this happen from her cupboard. Harry knew she ought to be sorry that Mrs Figg had broken her leg and the old lady was kind enough to her, but it wasn't easy when she was reminded that it was a whole year before she'd have to look at photos of Mrs Figg's old cats and warily evade her new ones.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon said with the air of one who already knew the answer he'd receive.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

Harry's aunt and uncle often spoke about her like this, as if she were an inconvenient piece of furniture to be rehomed once a year – or rather, something really unpleasant like one of the aforementioned Aunt Marge's bulldogs that couldn't understand a word they were saying.

This continued for some time and Harry eventually tuned out and set about washing the dishes, figuring she'd find out whatever her punishment would be whenever they got around to it. Between his aunt and uncle's arguing and Dudley's brewing tantrum, it was easier to just let the racket fade and daydream. An image from Harry's half-remembered dream flitted across her mind and her imagination seized on it, constructing a picture of Harry herself, older and so glamourous-looking in leather jacket, heeled boots and dramatic makeup accented with red lips seated astride a motorbike - flying, as it had in her dream. A faint smile touched the corners of Harry's mouth though her pleasant train of thought was soon interrupted by the arrival of one of Dudley's friends.

Piers Polkiss was a sneering, scrawny boy – though not quite so scrawny as Harry – with greasy hair and a pointed nose with a perpetually reddened tip that reminded Harry every time she saw him of a rat. Dudley's feigned sobs ceased almost immediately and he wiped the crocodile tears from his now smugly grinning face.

An hour or so later, Harry had been bundled into the car and still couldn't quite believe the turn of events as she was, her face now pressed against the window, on the way to the zoo for the first time in her life. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had been unable to think of anything to do with her and so, after many warnings of dire consequences for any 'funny business' and recollections of such incidents, here Harry was. Piers' constant sharp prodding was admittedly spoiling the novelty somewhat, but still. Nothing could quite dampen her good mood. Today, nothing was going to go wrong.

It was even worth being here, squished against the window next to Piers Polkiss and her cousin to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, her cupboard or Mrs Figg's cabbage-smelling lounge.

As he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon was happiest when complaining – his workmates, Harry, young people enjoying themselves, Harry, ' _those_ _queers_ ', Harry, and the state of education in England were just a few of his favourite topics. Today the subject was motorbikes, and Harry couldn't help interrupting his rant with a quick interjection: "I had a dream about a motorbike. It was flying," she commented unhelpfully.

Uncle Vernon's reaction was so sudden, he almost rear-ended the car he was following closely – not ten minutes before the topic of complaint had been bad driving and the speed limits set for 'nervous Nellies' - as he whirled around to face Harry, his fleshy face turning an interesting shade of violet. "MOTORBIKES DON'T FLY!"

Piers and Dudley sniggered.

"I know they don't. It was just a dream." Harry murmured, wishing more now that she hadn't said anything. If there was anything the Dursleys despised more than questions, it was her talking about things behaving in ways they shouldn't, even in books or films or as in this case, a dream. They seemed to think it might encourage her, whatever that meant.

The day was sunny, for England, and given it was a Saturday the zoo was crowded with families of all kinds. The Dursleys bought Piers and Dudley massive chocolate ice-creams at the entrance, and when the zoo worker asked if Harry would like anything they, to Harry's surprise, bought her a lemon ice-block. It seemed their usual cruelty would be limited, outside of their own home. The Dursleys were nothing if not concerned with public appearances.

Harry wandered along a little apart from her aunt, uncle and the boys, concerned that when they grew bored with hassling the zoo animals they would find a more satisfying target in Harry's own skinny form. Still, she had a fine time peering at all the exotic animals and when they stopped for lunch, Dudley threw a tantrum about his dessert and Harry was allowed to finish it while Uncle Vernon bought Dudley another. All in all, no more eventful than usual and far more pleasant.

They then made their way into the reptile house. It was dark and cool with muted lighting, and Harry found it a relief after the glaring sun and complete overload of sounds outside. Behind glass, all manner of lizards and snakes slithered and scampered and hissed. Harry scanned over the names - the strange dark-eyed dragonesque lizard was a tuatara, from somewhere called New Zealand. Harry wasn't sure where New Zealand was, but it sounded very far away and she wondered why they'd felt the need to uproot this sleepy creature. Over on the other side of the reptile house, Dudley and Piers were trying to find the deadliest animal the could and annoy it. They'd quickly found the largest snake in the place, marbled in amber and black and brown, and were pounding on the glass and generally just doing everything the signs said not to.

When they got bored, Harry made her way over to the exhibit and let her head fall forward, forehead resting against the glass with a soft _thunk_ . The snake opened its' dark, slitted eyes and for a moment Harry and the snake just watched each-other. "It's not nice being trapped, is it," Harry whispered, and she could have sworn the snake shook it’s head. "I'm sorry. They're loud. They're _always_ loud." she murmured. The snake's expression seemed to say quite clearly, _'I get that all the time'._ Harry smiled tiredly, she knew that feeling. "Where are you from? It must be nicer than here," she asked, and the snake flicked its' tail at the placard in front of its' terrarium: _Boa Constrictor, Brazil. This specimen was bred in the zoo._ "Oh... I'm sorry. So you've been stuck here, your whole life... in a big glass box? That's gotta suck. I get how that feels. You live in a box, I live in a cupboard." she whispered, feeling bad for the snake all of a sudden. She cast her eyes around at the other placards and the little 'bred in the zoo' captions jumped out at her everywhere. Overwhelmed, she turned and leaned against the glass again. She didn't have the words for it but... breeding _wild animals_ and keeping them in captivity for people like the Dursleys to look at whenever they felt like it, didn't seem right.

"Oi, Dudley! Mr Dursley! You gotta see what this snake's doing!" a jeering nasal voice called out; and Harry's moment of quiet was interrupted. She tried her best to get out of the way but wasn't quite fast enough and caught Dudley's fist to the ribs. Coughing, she stumbled back and caught hold of the wooden rail running along the front of the terrarium wall for balance. Hunched over as she was, Harry found herself on eye level with the boa constrictor. Her eyes narrowed, the Dursleys' chatter faded into a dull hum and the edges of her vision went black. She swayed, and caught herself on the rail again, only to straighten in shock. Where once had been the boa's clear prison wall was now a doorway. Dudley was frozen in horror and Piers reeled backwards, pressing back against the wall of another terrarium with the intent of getting as far away from the now-free boa constrictor as possible. As the snake uncoiled itself from the branch and slipped to the ground, Harry could have sworn she heard a hissing voice say _"Home, here I come. Thankssss, amiga."_

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. "But the glass," he kept saying, staring at the now-solid terrarium wall, "where did the glass go?

Piers and Dudley could only gibber, while Aunt Petunia recovered and Uncle Vernon gathered his fury. Harry was shepherded into the car and squished against the window again, and they were halfway home before the boys recovered enough to make things difficult. "Harry was talking to it, weren't you Harry?" Piers commented, some of his sneer returning though his face was still an ashy pale hue.

The car ride the rest of the way home then was dead silent, Harry could barely dare to breathe. She knew the punishment was coming though still couldn't quite fathom how miraculously strange happenings were her fault at all. They had barely handed a still-pale Piers off to his hovering mother before Harry was shoved unceremoniously into her cupboard, Uncle Vernon's declaration of 'no meals' drifting off after her.

Harry lay in the dark with her spider friends, wishing she had a watch to keep time. She drifted off at some point, green light and strange, disjointed memories flicking across her consciousness like so many disconnected stars. A woman's laughter, red hair falling across her face, someone's hazel eyes behind thick glasses, cruel laughter, a piercing scream, green light and then darkness, over and over behind Harry's closed eyelids.


	2. Summertime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's a short one. I'm gradually starting to diverge from the original plot, but with the sheer amount of content in my notepad I really hadn't noticed how short this was. Good thing this isn't getting uploaded alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Child abuse, panic, isolation, gender dysphoria, panic attacks, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, use of homophobic and transphobic slurs, bullying

The incident of the vanishing glass earned Harry her longest-ever spell in the cupboard. She could only wonder what excuses the Dursleys gave her teachers, for when she was let out again the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken half of his thirty-nine birthday gifts; in the case of the racing bike he had also knocked down Mrs Figg as she hobbled down Privet Drive on crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was still no escape from Dudley and his gang. They visited the house almost every day and were quite happy to join in the only sport Dudley enjoyed - Harry-hunting. So Harry spent as much time out of the house as she could, even taking on a holiday job delivering the evening post as an excuse to wander. Her aunt and uncle were far from impressed when they found out, but she got very good at hiding her meagre wages from them and the small things she bought with them. A tube of raspberry lipgloss, a small sewing kit, some new-ish clothes from a local opportunity shop - that might not seem like much to some but to Harry, it was freedom. She didn't have much but she managed to squirrel away what she could buy - a couple of skirts, a sundress, a pair of jeans, three t-shirts, a packet of socks and another of hair-ties and clips, a pair of soft minty green pyjamas with kittens on them and a new pair of sneakers with a design of wildflowers embroidered on the sides - under her mattress.

New clothes and lip gloss – certainly stereotypical, but to Harry it meant brief, precious moments of freedom in her own skin before falling into bed. It meant falling asleep in something that brought her comfort to weather the day ahead, and it meant she made surprising friends in her wanders. An elderly man over on Ivy Close started wearing flowery dresses out to pick up his mail from Harry and commented one time, "It's so nice to see young people shaking things up. Makes a bit more freedom for us who are only young at heart, you know?"

Harry had smiled shyly at that, she hadn't thought of it in that way. Another time the man in question had said he did feel like a man but sparkles and flowers just made him feel good. He started leaving old magazines with tips on how to do hair and makeup in his mailbox for Harry, and though neither of them mentioned it Harry felt for once like she might have an ally.

It was early on a Tuesday morning when the start of any real changes showed itself. This coming school year, Dudley would be attending Smeltings, Uncle Vernon's old private school. Piers Polkiss was to be enrolled there too, while Harry had a place at the local school, Stonewall High. Dudley found this fact endlessly hilarious, but privately Harry couldn't help thinking that a private school for boys sounded like a melting pot of bad attitude and was rather glad she'd be going somewhere else.

Smeltings, being a private school, didn't have uniform shops out in Surrey and so Harry was left at Mrs Figg's while the Dursleys went to London to get Dudley's school supplies. Mrs Figg was far less frustrating than usual, for as it turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats and so was much less fond of them than usual. She let Harry watch television and wear makeup in the house, and even offered her a piece of chocolate cake – though it tasted as if she'd had it for years.

Later that evening, Dudley was paraded through the living room in his new uniform. Smeltings boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange trousers and flat straw boater hats. They also carried short, knobbly sticks for hitting each-other when the teachers weren't looking. This, according to Uncle Vernon, was intended to be good training for later in life though for Harry, it really only confirmed that Smeltings would be a haven of bullying. Perfect, she thought darkly, for the bully parading around before her. But now she was doubly glad that she'd be sent to Stonewall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, short. Some happy baby-trans feels, some bad family things - the usual. Nothing particularly major in this chapter.


	3. Letters From No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're still pretty close to the original plot here but don't worry - chapter four is where it moves! This is why I waited until I had a few chapters to upload the story. As in the notes, a specific warning for child abuse on this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Child abuse, panic, isolation, gender dysphoria, panic attacks, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, use of homophobic and transphobic slurs, bullying 
> 
> SPECIFIC content warning on this chapter for assault, homophobia & transphobia and child abuse.

Harry awoke the next morning to an acrid stink that wafted from the kitchen and crept into every cranny of the usually-immaculate Dursley house. Wrinkling her nose she dressed hurriedly and headed on out for breakfast, noting that the smell seemed to originate from a large steel bucket in the kitchen sink. Peering curiously into it, she recoiled quickly - not only did its' contents reek,  but the fumes stung her eyes and throat. Her brief glimpse had hardly enlightened her at all, it seemed to be no more than a tub of greyish rags suspended in storm-water.

"Um... what's that?" She asked hesitantly, immediately regretting it as Aunt Petunia's lips went tight in the way they always did when Harry dared ask questions.

"Your new school uniform," she responded tersely.

Harry dared a second peek into the bucket and immediately decided that whatever she had to say was only going to get her in more trouble. She fished her toast out and sat down in her usual place at the far end of the table to eat, though she was interrupted by the click-shuffle-thump of the mail. Dodging Dudley's Smeltings stick, Harry made her way for the door. Sifting through the usual collection of shiny-crinkly junk mail, what looked like bills, the daily paper and a very generic postcard and –  _a letter for Harry_ . 

Harry stared at it in bewilderment, but there was no mistaking it. Lettered out in spiralling cursive that confused her eyes, that was indeed her name, her address. Peculiar, to be addressed to her cupboard but... it was very specific, if nothing else.

The envelope was stiff and heavy, made of a thick ochre parchment. Harry's address was  spelled out clearly in viridian green ink of a strange hue, the colour seemed to shift and sparkle under the light as she examined it. Turning it over in her shaking hands, Harry took in the violet wax seal stamped with an elaborate crest of a lion, a snake, an eagle and a badger encircling an elaborate letter H which was the centrepoint of the crest.

"Hurry up boy! What are you doing, checking for bombs in the post?" Uncle Vernon called down the hallway, snickering at his own joke as he craned his fleshy neck to see what Harry was up to.

Harry made her way back to the kitchen, sliding her letter into a back pocket. She handed over the bills, junk mail, paper and postcard. Feeling the parchment crumple under her, she thought of opening it under the table but decided she was on thin ice already. She finished her toast hurriedly and dropped her plate in the dishwasher, slinking from the room when -

"Oi, Dad, Harry's got something!" Dudley pointed out, always eager to dob Harry in for anything and everything. Vernon stood and held out his hand, palm up, eyeing Harry with a steely gaze withholding the unsaid threat -  _Hand it over, or else_ . 

Eyes downcast, Harry's shoulders slumped and she passed the letter over without complaint. Inside, she wanted to protest,  _'That's mine!'_ but knew there was no point. Merely  _having_ the letter put her on thin ice already, any sort of dissent would have her back in her cupboard. 

Uncle Vernon flicked the letter open and stared, his face going through an impressive transformation from it's usual red through purple, then the unhealthy beige of overcooked porridge. "P-Petunia!" he gasped, fending off a grab from Dudley as he passed the letter to Aunt Petunia. Harry looked between the two of them with growing anxiety as Aunt Petunia’s features went tense and a vein ticked in her throat while Uncle Vernon’s ashen face now showed a sheen of sweat.

  
“OUT! Both of you, out!” Uncle Vernon snapped, taking both Harry and Dudley by the collar and flinging them into the hallway, slamming the door behind them both. A sharp elbow from Dudley knocked Harry against the wall and she fought between the desire to know what was going on, and the desire to hide.

Hiding won out and, dodging an ankle tap from her cousin, Harry fled for her cupboard. Her aunt and uncle’s voices sounded faintly through the wall and Harry curled against it in the corner formed by her door and the wall at right-angles, shaking and fighting back tears. The thin walls muffled only some of the agitated conversation, and Harry caught snatches of it through her tears and irregular breathing.

“How could they know... spying... following us... Vernon? ... write back? Tell them...” the voices continued back and forth, Aunt Petunia’s rising in pitch and Uncle Vernon’s in volume. What little she heard did nothing to de-mystify the matter for Harry, but it was clear that the wax-sealed letter meant a lot more to her uncle and aunt than it did Harry. Moving stiffly, she rose and crawled into bed, her back against the far wall and pillow screwed up under her as she curled up into a knot of worry. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon carried on, shouting about stamping something out, dangerous nonsense and the like. It only served to confuse Harry, and she fell into a fitful doze thinking her cupboard would be safer than anywhere near them that day.

Later that day a truly unexpected event occurred. Usually Aunt Petunia was the one to peer in on Harry from the hallway, but when Uncle Vernon returned from work in the evening he flung Harry’s door open by way of greeting and ducked his head under the lintel as he leaned on the door-frame to speak to her. He forced his face into a smile, though it looked rather painful as if his muscles weren’t accustomed to it. “Harry, about this cupboard... Petunia and I, we had a talk and we rather feel you’re getting too big for it now. We’d..  _like_ you to move upstairs, into Dudley’s spare bedroom.” 

The question  _‘Why?’_ died on Harry’s lips, the Dursleys hated questions. Uncle Vernon stepped back and straightened up, dusting his hands on his jacket as if he’d just done some unpleasant task. “Well, that’s that. Take this stuff upstairs and then get down and help Petunia with dinner.” he said with an air of finality. 

It didn’t take Harry much time to pack her meagre belongings into two old schoolbags and trudge upstairs, her steps hesitant as she reached the landing. Upstairs was out of bounds to Harry – she’d been taught time and again where she belonged, in the cupboard under the stairs. Strains of a Richter scale nine Dudley tantrum drifted upstairs as Harry peered into her new bedroom.

The Dursleys h a d four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for guests, one where Dudley slept and one where Dudley kept everything he’d ever broken. Darkly amused, Harry cast her eyes around the room. Dudley had tried his best to break Harry too, but she was a little more durable than his air rifle – she flinched and turned away, remembering waking one morning to its’ muzzle pressed to her brow – or his near-new video camera. One shelf was full of books, and Harry dropped her bags as she wandered over to them in a haze, running a forefinger along the spines as she read out the titles in a soft, wondering whisper.  _The Faraway Tree_ ,  _Matilda, the Chronicles of Narnia –_ a full set of seven books, though she noticed by the numbers on the spine that they were out of order; the  _Lord of the Rings –_ a boxed trilogy, with a fourth book entitled  _The Hobbit_ included in the box; and a solid hardcover titled  _The Once and Future King_ were some of the titles that caught her eye. Of all the broken things in the room, only these seemed untouched and they were like treasure to Harry. Hurricane Dudley carried on down below, but Harry tugged a book from the shelf and curled up on the bed –  _her_ bed – to read.

The next few days passed in a blur of swearing and green-inked letters appearing in the strangest of places. Harry didn’t dare mention the letters around the house, but she dragged herself out of bed first thing one Thursday morning with the intent to catch the post before the Dursleys did. She didn’t get half-way down the stairs before she caught sight of a strange collection of shapes in the grey dawn light. Harry shook her head and took her glasses off to wipe them on her pyjama shirt, taking in the hulking shape sprawled on the mat in mounting horror as she crouched on the stairs. Luckily she’d seen him before she left the staircase, but it seemed Uncle Vernon had predicted her planned heist and slept out here in the hallway. Horrified at the prospect of what might happen if he woke, Harry turned tail and scurried back to her room, closing the door behind her and curling up in bed again as waves of panic and her anxiety’s projections of what could have happened played in an interminable loop in her conscious.

After Harry’s attempted mail heist, she left the house for a few hours only to return and find Uncle Vernon again with the door jammed open, his mouth full of nails as he boarded up the mail slot. “See, boy?” He asked, a malicious glint in his eye as he spoke around the nails. “No letters for you if they can’t  _deliver_ them!” Harry wasn’t so sure, but it did seem worrying that Uncle Vernon had stayed home from work today on account of the letters. 

On Friday, a good dozen or so letters arrived; all addressed to Harry Potter. As they couldn’t get through the mail slot they had been forced under the door and slotted through the gaps at either side, a few had even made their way through the small window in the downstairs toilet. Uncle Vernon stayed home again boarding up any noticeable cracks, still with that vindictive gleam in his eye as he whistled tunelessly to music of his own imagining.

Saturday morning was pandemonium. Twenty-four letters made their way into the house, rolled up inside each one of the two-dozen eggs that the very confused milkman delivered through the kitchen window. Aunt Petunia shredded them mercilessly in the blender while Uncle Vernon raged at the post company and the dairy, trying to find someone to bully who knew anything about this. Dudley was taken aback. “Who could want to talk to  _you_ this much? Didn’t think you had any friends.”

Harry quipped back that Dudley should leave the thinking to someone better qualified, unfortunately just as Uncle Vernon hung up the phone. She spent the rest of the day locked in her room, absorbed in another of Dudley’s unwanted books as the sound of hammer strikes punctuated almost every daylit moment.

On Sunday morning, Harry tiptoed tentatively downstairs to find a grimly smiling Uncle Vernon already seated at the breakfast table. Pouring milk over her cereal, Harry watched him cautiously as his smile broadened. “No post on Sundays,” he reminded her as he spread marmalade on her toast, nodding an eerily cheerful greeting as Aunt Petunia and Dudley wandered out of the kitchen. “None. No bloody letters today-”

Whatever Uncle Vernon had planned to say next was cut off as something whistled down the chimney and connected sharply with the back of his head. He swore and turned, just as another flew past and skidded down the dining table to knock against the flower vase standing in the middle. Then, like a dam unstopped, a torrent of letters flooded out of the fireplace bringing ash and soot with them; creating a veritable whirlwind in Aunt Petunia’s pristine kitchen.

“Out! OUT!” Uncle Vernon thundered, and Harry didn’t have to wait to be thrown this time as she bolted from the kitchen, fleeing upstairs to her room and slamming the door behind her before she was able to stop, and breathe, and remember she was safe. Harry stumbled over to the bed and flung herself down on it, her breath still coming in ragged gasps as she recovered from her panic. She was not permitted long, however, as Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. He opened the door with his usual subtlety and scowled at the sight of Harry cowering against the wall, _The Once and Future King_ cradled in her lap. “Pack some things and get downstairs. Five minutes. We’re going _away.”_ he snapped before striding from the room.

He had looked so unsettling with half his moustache and soot in his receding hair that Harry supposed no one else dared argue, and she set about shoving some of her clothes into a holey old schoolbag. She supposed it had once been black, but it had been faded by the sun and wear to a dull purple colour that Harry rather liked; although continuing to use it had earned her a few dark comments from Uncle Vernon about appropriate behaviour and belongings for boys. Their displeasure didn’t extend so far as replacing it, however, so she continued to do so.

Harry eyed her bed, considering the clothes she’d hidden under the mattress. With a reckless shrug she lifted it and snagged the pocketless jeans, a shirt and some other things, stuffing them in the very bottom of her bag. She wasn’t sure why she bothered bringing them, perhaps there was by now something comforting about sleeping with her secrets near. Still, she thought little more of it as she slid her lipgloss into an inner pocket of the bag until her hand brushed against something-

Something stiff, and made of parchment. Her eyes wide with wonder, Harry drew her hand from the bag, a final envelope clutched in her grasp. Hands now shaking, she lifted the wax seal from the parchment with a nail and opened the letter, unfurling it to reveal a letter written in the same emerald ink as the address. She read it, her wonder growing with every passage.

** _Hogwarts School of_ _Magic_ **

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed of Wizards)_

_Dear Harry Potter_ ,

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of_ _Magic_ _. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Well now, Harry almost regretted opening the letter; for its’ contents explained almost nothing of her aunt and uncle’s reaction.  Magic ? She’d have ignored it and taken it for a prank, had the mysterious sender not been so peculiarly insistent on her receiving this missive. She sat for a moment studying its’ contents again, flipping open the supplies list in the help it might help elucidate the situation. If anything, it made it worse– a wand? And these textbook titles seemed sheer nonsense. Harry knocked the heel of her palm against her forehead, as if the sensation might shock some sort of working order into her brain. 

No such luck. As she began to read the letter for a third time, Uncle Vernon reappeared in her doorway with the ghosts of a demand written across his lips that died the moment he saw what lay in Harry’s hands. “You – when did you get that? Give that here, you thieving brat,” he snarled, crossing the room in angry strides to snatch the letter from a shrinking Harry’s grasp.

He raised his fist and Harry closed her eyes, cowering behind her own vainly defensive arms as she prepared for yet another beating. His fist met her ribs and Harry gasped in pain, something cracked and the wind was knocked from her body. She was used to more, ready for more when -

BOOM.

Someone, someone far stronger than her current tormentor, was knocking at the door.


	4. Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I said, this is where it moves from the original plot. Small divergence at first, that gradually gets bigger and bigger. I'm so glad this is the last chapter where I have to deal with Dursleys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Child abuse, panic, isolation, gender dysphoria, panic attacks, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, use of homophobic and transphobic slurs, bullying 
> 
> As with the previous chapter, a specific reiteration of the standing warning for child abuse, homophobia, transphobia and assault here.

BOOM.

Whoever was outside knocked again, and then there was silence. In that silence, Harry shrank back against the wall as Uncle Vernon staggered away from her, his hands curled into fists at his sides as he strode, stiff-legged and square-shouldered like a bulldog, from the room. Harry trailed helplessly after, muffling a shriek of pain as she stood and stayed, leaning against her door-frame now as she took in the great shadow that showed through the glass of the front door.

With an ugly crash, the door was shunted from its hinges and fell, to lie with its’ glass in ruins on the floor at the intruder’s feet. “Who’s there?” snarled Uncle Vernon with rather more bravado than the quiver in his raised arms showed. He snatched up a vase that rested on a table nearby and brandished it at the intruder. “I warn you, I’m armed!”

The giant – for there was no other way to describe him – stooped his head and stepped through the doorway, casting an appraising eye around before clearly settling on Uncle Vernon. His lower face was hidden by a wild tangle of beard and his hair was no tidier, crowding the edges of his face. Harry crept closer, finding a spot in the corner of the upstairs landing to watch from as the stranger dusted himself off, though peculiarly one hand was occupied with a pink floral umbrella that he held closed at his side as one might hold a sword at ready.

“Ah, Dursley ya great prat. Put that down before you hurt yerself.” The giant remarked, and Harry thought she could detect derision in his heavy brogue – not the tone one ordinarily took with Uncle Vernon. His face – well, what she could see of it – took on that searching quality again and Harry fought the urge to shrink back into the shadows of the railing. It was no use anyway, the giant had spotted her.

“An’ here’s Harry!” The giant crowed, clearly delighted. Harry was perplexed and, again stifling her body’s complaints, hauled herself upright against the railing.

“Las’ time I saw you, you was just a baby.” he continued, still smiling. “You’ve still got your mum’s eyes. Why don’t you come on down, let’s have a proper look at ya.”

Harry began to make her way down the stairs, and that was enough for Uncle Vernon. He made a strange rasping noise, as if he couldn’t quite make his voice work. “I demand that you leave, at once! You are breaking and entering”

The giant threw him a disdainful glare. “Aw Dursley, shut up, and let Harry down.” he responded, clearly un-intimidated by Uncle Vernon’s threats. As Uncle Vernon stood shocked in the wake of this unfamiliar show of complete nonchalance, Harry was able to slip past and make her way – still clutching her faded backpack – downstairs, looking up at the giant with wide eyes.

“Anyway, Harry. Got somethin’ for you. It’s a bit early, thought I was going to have to chase you lot all over the country but... here.” he said, fishing in his pockets – of which there were many – to eventually withdraw a slightly dented box. He gestured for Harry to take it and, not knowing what else to do, she did, opening it as if expecting its’ contents to bite her. Instead, inside was a large and sticky chocolate cake with jam spilling from between its’ two layers and chocolate icing smudged all over the box. Some had got on Harry’s fingers as she opened and and, idly, she licked them. Not bad – but she’d never had cake before and certainly never been given one like this. Tears welled in her eyes and she bit them back as she processed the rest of it for, scrawled across the cake in green piped icing were the words ‘Happy Birthday, Harry’.

Harry looked up at the giant, her lip trembling. “Like I said, ‘s a day early,” he apologised gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. Harry opened her mouth and closed it again, she meant to say thank-you – wanted, to say thank-you – but the words got lost somewhere in her throat. “I... who are you?”

The giant chuckled, and a wry smile crossed his broad face. “Ah, true, haven’t introduced meself. Shoulda maybe done that before I put the door... there.” he commented, gesturing vaguely at the shattered glass and twisted wood that had once been the Dursleys’ front door. “I’m Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

Hogwarts, as in, the Hogwarts in Harry’s letter. She cast a fearful glance back at Uncle Vernon even as the giant – Rubeus Hagrid – addressed him. “Well, seems awful rude to keep standin’ around in the door. Le’s all go an’ sit.” He said, with a pointed look at Uncle Vernon. Mutely, Harry went first and the giant – and the Dursleys, for all three had been summoned now – followed her through the inside door to the living room. Rubeus Hagrid had to stoop even lower than for the front door, almost taking a knee in his effort to avoid knocking his head. “Houses built for dolls,” he muttered, and Harry shared a shy smile with him as they all took places around the living room – the giant taking up an entire couch to himself while the Dursleys all huddled on another, and Harry perched on the edge of a solitary chair with the air of a blackbird ready to fly at any sudden threat.

“So, Harry, you’d know all about Hogwarts then.” the giant started, and Harry shook her head, again casting a sideways look in the Dursleys’ direction. “I... there was a letter in my bag, but it didn’t make much sense.”

Her fearful glance was not unnoticed by the giant, and he scowled at Uncle Vernon. “Well. Call me Hagrid, everyone does.” he said, before turning the full weight of his glare on the cowering Dursleys. “What’s this, eh? You taught the kid nothing?” he growled, and Harry felt the need to defend herself. “Well, I know some stuff. Maths, and I can read and -”

Hagrid simply waved, his scowl deepening. “Nah, not that. I meant about _our_ world. You know, _your_ world. Yer _parents_ ’ world.”

Harry shook her head, all this talk of other worlds only added to her confusion. “What... world?” she asked. Hagrid’s brows drew together like very angry, very wiry caterpillars. “DURSLEY!” he thundered, gesturing at Uncle Vernon with his floral umbrella. He turned a slightly desperate gaze on Harry, who withered under it. “But you must know about yer mum and dad. They’re famous. _You’re_ famous.”

Harry was speechless, opening her mouth and gasping for air, trying to scramble together some semblance of speech before shaking her head and seeming to shrink in on herself. Hagrid’s growing fury didn’t seem directed at her, but it felt as if he’d expected something of her and she wasn’t meeting that. Usually when Harry failed to meet expectations it meant either detention or a spell in her cupboard.

“You... don’t know what you are?” Hagrid asked finally, running his hands through his wild hair – clearly an anxious habit, as there was certainly no chance of taming it – as he stared at Harry in abject bewilderment.

Uncle Vernon seemed to find his voice then, having previously been only able to stutter and squeak. “Stop right there! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!”

Far braver men than Vernon Dursley would have cowered under the weight of the fury Hagrid now leveled on him, and Uncle Vernon was a bully – they are never brave. When Hagrid spoke next, every syllable quivered with rage and every phrase was thick with disgust.

“You never told him? Never said what was in the letter Dumbledore left for him? I was there, Dursley! I saw Dumbledore leave it, tucked in his blanket. You, ya great prune, you felt you had the right to keep it from him all these years?”

“Kept _what_ from me?” Harry piped up, Hagrid seemed to be an ally – if an unexpected one.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” Uncle Vernon shrieked, his voice rising with panic.

“Ah, go boil yer heads, the three of you. Harry, you’ve got magic.”

The house fell silent, even the echo of Hagrid’s words was left only in the minds of those listening. Wind whistled through the hole left by the front door, and somewhere outside an owl cried out mournfully.

Harry took a deep breath, ready to dismiss the notion outright, when she remembered the contents of the letter. School of magic. All the times her hair had grown out when Aunt Petunia hacked it off, the many impractical ways she’d escaped over the years from Dudley and his gang, the – the vanishing glass. Panic and excitement rose in her, each warring for dominance as she turned this new revelation and it’s gendered connotations over and over in her head.

Hagrid saw her expression and nodded. “A lot to take in, right? I was expectin’ you’d know a bit more but... if you read the letter, at least you have some idea.” he said, and Harry wasn’t sure but she thought she could hear kindness in his rough voice. “W-what does it mean, they await an owl? _My_ owl?” she asked finally, and Hagrid smacked his palm against his forehead. Harry was reminded of her own familiar mannerism, but she never did so with quite such force as Hagrid. “Ah, knuts,” he muttered and, from one of his many pockets he withdrew an owl. A live owl, disgruntled and sleepy with a few feathers out of place. From another he found a small scrap of parchment, a stained clay bottle of ink and a long quill with the feathery end all ruffled and bent. He scrawled a quick letter and blew on it to dry, then passed it to the owl who took it imporantly and winged its’ way off through the front doorway into the night.

Hagrid dusted off his hands, wiping them on his coat. “Now, where was I,” he muttered. Uncle Vernon spoke up again now, though with far more trepidation than the last time. “The boy’s not going,” he interjected hoarsely. Hagrid laughed, though it was a humourless and hollow sound. “I’d like to see you stop him.” he snapped, turning back to Harry. “Now, we have school supplies to get. Let’s be off, yeah?” he suggested, offering a hand to Harry. Hesitantly she took it, and they stepped around the Dursleys and broken glass on their way out of the house. Their departure was sped by Aunt Petunia’s semi-coherent shrieks and Uncle Vernon’s threats, but Harry’s steps were buoyant as for the first time it seemed she had somewhere real, somewhere the Dursleys couldn’t follow.

They seemed to be away free, when out of nowhere Dudley rushed up, grasping Harry around the waist with one arm – she hissed and then shrieked in pain, the sound cut off. “Freak,” he hissed, kicking her bag from her limp hand and knocking the cake box from the other. “Knew you were a fag freak, now you’re a _magic_ tranny freak. Know why they’re taking you to a special school out who knows where? It’s cos none of us normal people want freaks around.”

Harry’s heart hammered in her chest, she whimpered and fought back a scream as she shifted in Dudley’s grip and he crushed her tighter. Suddenly, through her haze of pain, Hagrid was there. Wild-maned and furious, he grasped Dudley’s shoulder firmly, thumb digging into the joint and weakening his grip on Harry. She slid free, and Dudley drew back his leg and kicked her viciously in her already-damaged ribs.

“You’re a right piece of work, Dursley boy,” Hagrid snarled, shoving Dudley backwards and drawing his pink umbrella. Derision showed in Dudley’s watery eyes at the thoroughly non-threatening item being thrust at him like a weapon, and Hagrid barked something out – probably a curse, but in Harry’s pained state she had no real idea what was said. A jet of yellow light flashed from the end of the umbrella and struck Dudley, sending him staggering a few paces back before turning tail and fleeing. Harry wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a tail peeking over the top of his drooping pyjama bottoms.

Gently – though she still had to bite back a cry – Hagrid lifted her, as if she were weightless. She slipped in and out of consciousness but had a vague sensation of rushing and purple, and then they were moving up, stairs? She couldn’t tell. Hagrid’s voice was hazy and he sounded concerned, then someone was propping her up on a narrow bed. Harry felt a vaguely cold sensation, then burning in her ribs and then, finally, a cessation of pain. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, and Hagrid’s now familiar voice resonated beside her.

“Don’t worry, lad, the Knight Bus keeps a healer on board. Travel for the stranded witch or wizard sometimes means an injured witch or wizard.” he murmured, and Harry nodded vaguely as if she understood anything he was saying. She blinked, and forced her eyes open – then wished she hadn’t. Sights flashed by outside faster than Harry could process them and she felt a vague wave of nausea rise before she wrenched her gaze away, focusing on Hagrid as the solid presence on what he’d said was a bus. Clearly it was meant for long-distance travel, as Harry was propped up in a narrow bed against one wall and she could see others in rows down the impossibly long aisle. Hagrid was seated across from her on a bed of his own, though it was too small for him to use as anything but a chair.

Harry blinked wearily, and Hagrid’s smile grew understanding. “You rest, lad. While you rest, let me talk. I’ll tell you about your parents, and where we’re going.” he murmured, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. Harry thought dazedly he looked like he was ready to tell her a bedtime story and a shy smile spread across her thin face as she settled better in her bed, turned on one side to listen to Hagrid as he talked. His story was dark and words halting, but his voice was steady and reassuring and she found herself slowly, gradually, drifting off to sleep.


	5. A Whole New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like gradually getting further and further from the established canon. Some of this is taken from my own experience with foster systems and how young people leaving abusive families looks, but much more informally given this is the magical world we're dealing with. This is a long one, mostly rattling around Diagon Alley and setting up for going to Hogwarts as it looks a little different here than the original.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Child abuse, panic, isolation, gender dysphoria, panic attacks, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, use of homophobic and transphobic slurs, bullying

A/N: I like gradually getting further and further from the established canon. Some of this is taken from my own experience with foster systems and how young people leaving abusive families looks, but much more informally given this is the magical world we're dealing with. This is a long one (12k words?!), mostly rattling around Diagon Alley and setting up for going to Hogwarts as it looks a little different here than the original.

  
  


Content Warning: Child abuse, panic, isolation, gender dysphoria, panic attacks, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, use of homophobic and transphobic slurs, bullying (mentioned, little specifics in this chapter)

  
  


Harry woke early Tuesday morning, seized with panic momentarily as she struggled to place her blurry surroundings, groping around to find her glasses – under the pillow, slightly squished; and now able to see she gaped around her in wonder at their surrounds. Hagrid was leaning against the wall across the aisle, his beard fluttering as he snored. Down the aisle to either side, other people – witches and wizards, Harry remembered hazily – had joined them in the night and so the bus that had been so empty last night was now a riot of motley colour, strange animals and products she’d never seen before spread up and down the purple aisle.

A sharp rap on the window interrupted Harry’s daydreamy perception of her surroundings. Hagrid’s snores ceased, and his eyelids fluttered. “That’s some nap you had, kid. Guess you needed it.” he commented, his eyes crinkling with good humour. “Let the owl in, the window slides.” he added, his voice muffled by sleep as he gestured vaguely to the window catch. Harry did as she was instructed and a very disgruntled-looking owl tumbled inside. It stood, eyeing Harry with a look of disdain as it set its’ feathers to rights, then unceremoniously dropped what was clearly a rolled-up newspaper in Harry’s lap and stuck out it’s leg as if waiting for something. “Er, Hagrid?” Harry asked, perplexed. Hagrid whistled and beckoned the bird over, depositing what looked like small, misshapen coins into the pouch fastened to it’s leg. Satisfied, the bird departed. “Toss us the paper, lad,” Hagrid said, scrubbing sleep from his eyes and so unaware as Harry flinched.

“I... um... that’s the thing, Hagrid.” Harry murmured, taking a deep breath to drown out the Dursleys’ voices that clamoured in her ears, the phantom pain of the beating Uncle Vernon had given her the one and only time she talked about this. She hesitated over the words, they caught in her throat before she opted for the simplest option. “I’m a girl.”

Hagrid blinked at her over the top of his paper, looking her up and down appraisingly. He was clearly taking in her long hair, delicate face and thin frame for a second time. If the Dursleys hadn’t repeatedly referred to Harry as a boy, if Hagrid hadn’t known her from birth, he would have easily taken her for any other girl. So, in his easy way, he did now. “Well, I ‘preciate yeh tellin’ me, Harry.” he replied with an easy smile, and Harry felt a surge of gratitude at his casual acceptance. Maybe this was going to be easy, for once. Hagrid frowned, and looked her over again. “You’re pretty grubby, though. There’s a bathroom down the end, if there’s clothes in that bag you brought you may as well go clean up in there.”

Harry took in a deep breath and stood a little shakily, following Hagrid’s gesture to the end of the bus aisle where there was a single bathroom stall. She slid the door closed behind her and hung her backpack on the handle, casting her eyes around. It was cramped but clean, a showerhead on the wall was set behind a metal bar, from which hung a floral plastic curtain that was currently pressed against the wall. When extended, it brushed up against the toilet and there was little room left for the small sink and cracked mirror. Harry peered into her bag but as she suspected, the only spare clothes she’d brought were her new ones.

_Maybe this new school could be a fresh start_ , she thought with a faint glimmer of hope. She showered hurriedly, washing the grime from her body and glass from her tangled hair; then dressed and looked at herself in the crooked mirror. For a change the sight wasn’t one that made her flinch. She liked the embroidered flowers on the pockets of her jeans and the sides of her shoes, the lacy ribbon that ran around the top edge of her short socks, and the simple green shirt printed with an abstract pattern of flowers and spirals was cut so that it had a slight shape to it. Now she wasn’t dressed in Dudley’s cast-off clothes, she felt like an actual  _person_ , not some sad waif swallowed by her own attire. 

Harry rummaged in the pockets of her back and dug out the lipgloss and a hair-tie she’d stowed there. She hesitated, then scraped her hair into a scruffy ponytail – some strands still hung down around her face, and her hair would never lie flat even when tied. Once that was done, she applied a light coat of glittery lipgloss and inspected her reflection again, the result drawing a small small out of her. Harry rolled up her dirty clothes, pitching them into the bathroom bin with a small thrill of victory. No more Dudley’s clothes. No more hiding from herself.

Her shoulders set with a determined air, Harry opened the door and returned to Hagrid, setting her bag down and pulling up the bed-clothes before seating herself and looking to him with questions written plain on her young face.

Hagrid smiled, a surprisingly gentle expression for such a large, rough-looking man. “Well, don’t know how I coulda missed it before. You remind me of yer mum, Harry, she always looked like that – challenging, and holding back a hundred questions.” he said softly, bringing an unasked- tear to Harry’s eyes. Shaking his head, Hagrid continued on. “Well, figured the Knight Bus would be the best place for yeh. Normally Surrey to London’s a quick trip, but they didn’t seem to mind having us on all the rest o’ Sunday and yesterday. They’re pretty used to pickin’ up folks who are all kinds of banged up, had the healer on board see t’ ya.” he explained, gesturing around them.

“London?” Harry asked, a slight frown crinkling her brow. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it was certainly something more exotic than, well, that. “You can get magic school supplies in London?” she asked Hagrid, a hint of incredulity creeping into her quiet query.

The giant chuckled. “Sure, if yeh know where to look.” he replied cryptically. A shout from the bus conductor announced that the next stop was London, and so a few minutes later he and Harry were wandering along a narrow London side-street. Harry was gazing wide-eyed at her surroundings, turning in circles along the pavement with a shy skip in her step while Hagrid scanned the shop-fronts, clearly searching for something in particular. “Ah, here it is. C’mon,” he said, casually reaching out a hand for Harry who was by now spinning in a restrained expression of joy, her arms outstretched as she took in the colours and smells and new sounds around her.

Harry squeaked and flinched from the unexpected physical contact. She shrank back against the wall and stared at Hagrid, wide-eyed. Slowly, eyes now fixed downward, she slid to the ground, hugging her knees as she fought to control the sudden panic. “I’m sorry I just... you startled me...” she breathed, shaking her head as a lock of hair fell across her face.

To any onlooker she made a sorrowful sight but to Hagrid... he hadn’t known what to expect of the Boy – well, Girl, he corrected himself internally – Who Lived; but a terrified waif who shrunk from any touch and barely made eye contact, whose every expression was so cautious and... his expression darkened, and he thought back to how he’d seen the Dursleys treat her – and not just the beating she’d received from Dudley. There had been pain written in every line of her body when he’d first laid eyes on her. Hagrid hardly considered himself any kind of a thinker, but it didn’t take much to figure out who’d done that. He’d been the Hogwarts gamekeeper for almost five decades now, and had seen all kinds of kids pass through Hogwarts and grow up. Over time, he’d come to know some of their stories and while he wasn’t much for book learning, well, behaviour was something he knew a lot about. People weren’t as different from animals as they wanted to think, and just as a horse’s spirit breaks with every beating, so too did humans shut down in their pain. Harry’s instinctive terror tore at Hagrid’s gentle heart, he’d seen that wounded panic before. This kid had been abused, probably ever since she’d been left with the Dursleys that late spring night. 

Moving slowly, Hagrid stepped around Harry and sat down, his back against the wall perhaps a metre from Harry so as to give the young girl some space. “I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t think.” he apologised, keeping his voice low and even. Something poked him in the side and he fished in one of the many pockets of his coat, eventually drawing out the now-very battered cake box. “Well, now it’s even more  squashed . But hopefully should still taste alright,  put a Keepin’ Charm on it . You want cake for yer birthday breakfast?” he asked, flipping open the squished box. Cake: still intact. Hagrid took out a pocket knife – at this, Harry flinched again and he cursed himself again for not warning her – and proceeded to cut them each a generous slice of cake. 

Cautiously, Harry reached out her hand, offering Hagrid a wan smile and blinking the tears from her long lashes as he offered her the cake. It was crumbly and she giggled, surprised, as she managed to get semi-melted icing and raspberry jam all over the place. They made a funny sight, both sitting cross-legged on the foot-path, but nobody paid them much mind. Stranger things happened in the city than two people eating slightly squashed birthday cake.

Once they’d both finished licking the remnants of birthday cake from their hands, Hagrid returned the cake-box to his pocket and stood, offering Harry a hand. She didn’t take it but instead stood on her own, her stance a little more relaxed now but still tense and anxious. He smiled sadly at her, his gentle heart breaking for the kid.

“This is the Leaky Cauldron. It’s one of the many doorways into our world from the Muggle one,” he explained to her as he gestured at a very generic-looking pub. Once again, Harry was thrown off by his easy use of completely unfamiliar language, and she cocked her head at him in confusion. “Er... Muggle?” she inquired, stumbling slightly over the new phrase. “’S what we call non-magical folks. Some wizards are kinda stuck-up about it and use it like a sort of insult. Me? Nah, I save the insultin’ for folks like – well, them who really deserve it.” A very dark look crossed over his face, and Harry got the sense he was thinking of some Muggles in particular. She nodded, not wanting to continue with the thought-train of Muggles who deserved punishment any further; and jerked her head towards the pub window.

Clearly Hagrid got the message, and he took a few paces along the street to hold the heavy door to the Leaky Cauldron open for Harry. She laughed again, surprised – no-one had ever held doors open for her. It felt... nice, being treated like an ordinary girl - even if the big man was being a little silly about it, the whole affair felt like a friendly joke, one that she was in on. The feeling was unfamiliar, but she decided at once that she liked it and with a faint trace of hesitancy in her step, made her way past him into the pub.

All at once, the faint hum of voices ceased and it felt as if every face in the room – which was far larger than Harry would have expected, given the unassuming entrance – turned to face them. At first, there was silence broken only by Harry’s racing heartbeat and then; the whispers started.

“Is that..? Well, could be... Potter’d be about the right age now... thought ‘e was a boy? Yes, look, look! That’s the scar – don’t point...”

Harry’s vision glittered dangerously at the edges and she swayed on her unsteady feet, trembling, backing up against the door, frantically scanning the room for someone – anyone – who wasn’t looking at her like a brand new exotic specimen behind glass at a zoo.

Hagrid was, now, familiar with the signs of Harry’s panic and he pitched his voice low, making no move to touch her. “Easy, lass, I’ll handle it,” he murmured. He straightened up and looked about the room, irritation showing plain on his face. Sure the kid was famous, but gossip was dehumanising – a pet peeve of Hagrid’s, given he’d been on the receiving end of this kind of ogling more than once. “Alright, settle down ya flock of gossips,” he said, his tone somewhat humorous but leaving no room for complaint. “We’re just passing’ through, Harry’s here to pick up her school supplies. Don’t crowd, stick in yer seats – I’m sure Tom’s cleanin’ job’ll give you somethin’ more interestin’ to talk about if you look at it closer than ‘e wants.” he continued on, and the barman threw him a good-natured mock glare as he recognised the ploy for what it was.

Trouble successfully fielded, Hagrid led Harry through to the back room of the pub, fending off any busybodies with a scowl. He closed the back door behind them and turned to Harry with an apologetic wince. “Sorry ‘bout that. I... shoulda warned yeh, but honestly, they’re grown adults. You’d think they’d have better stuff to do than stare.” he finished with a mutter, searching in his pockets for the pink umbrella so he could set about letting them through. “You read over the school list again while I see if I can remember how to let us in, yeah?” he suggested, offering Harry another copy of her school letter – Harry wondered briefly just how many copies they’d printed – and then turning back to the very ordinary-looking brick wall ahead of them.

Harry opened the letter and scanned over the list, she’d skim-read it before but honestly hadn’t been able to take in much in her shock. Now she read it more closely, raising one eyebrow at some of the stranger instructions and reading it quietly under her breath.

_Hogwarts School of_ _Magic_

Uniform  
_First year students will require:_

  1. _Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

  2. _One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

  3. _One pair protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

  4. _One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_




_Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags._

Set Books _  
All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)  _by Miranda Goshawk  
_ A History of Magic  _by Bathilda Bagshot  
_ Magical Theory  _by Adalbert Waffling  
_ A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration  _by Emeric Switch  
_ One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore  
_ Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger  
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them  _by Newt Scamander  
_ The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection  _by Quentin Trimble_

Other Equipment

_1 wand  
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set glass or crystal phials  
1 telescope  
1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl, cat, toad or similarly small pet. Only one pet is permitted per student._

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS._

  
  


“So you’re telling me... you can get all this stuff here, through the back of a pub?” Harry inquired, eyes still downcast. Hagrid gave a vague grunt by way of verification, and Harry looked up at him – or intended to. Absorbed in reading, she hadn’t noticed as he’d somehow managed to open the wall onto the most fascinating street she’d ever seen. It stretched for several hundred metres, finishing at the foot of a towering white building styled almost like pictures she’d seen of Roman temples, with it’s imposing pillars and soaring roof set about with... some sort of statues, she couldn’t see at this distance. Distractedly, she took her glasses off and scrubbed them vainly on her shirt as if it would help her take in the sheer wonder of this little pocket of the magical world any faster.

Hagrid looked over and felt a fond surge of protectiveness at the earnest amazement on the eleven-year-old’s face. “Diagon Alley. It’s somethin’ else, right?” he murmured. “Yeh know, I didn’t think I’d ever get to come here. Was a big surprise for everyone when I turned out to be a wizard at all, so when my dad first told me ‘bout this place it kinda felt like he was talkin’ about somewhere we’d never get to go together. Seein’ it for the first time... it’s somethin’ I reckon the purebloods miss out on.”

Harry still had stars in her eyes when she turned a curious eye on Hagrid. “Purebloods? Like, some aren’t all witch or whatever?” she asked, a little perplexed. The way Hagrid had put it with her aunt and uncle it seemed to be something you either were or weren’t, and she voiced as much to him.

That merited a snort of derision, uncharacteristic from the gentle giant of a man. “It is. Either you can do magic or you can’t. Well, there are squibs – folks born to wizarding parents who can see our world but can’t do magic; but they’re pretty rare. Aside from that it’s pretty cut and dry. There’s just a bunch of old wizarding families who want to think they’re better than everyone else. Everyone else is pretty much the majority though so... their point of view will fade out eventually. S’already stuck in the past, wish they’d leave it there.” he explained. Honestly, Harry understood that better than she’d expected. It seemed every society she stepped into had archaic views about the way things should be – they might be about different things but they came from the same place of prejudice and control. It was almost comforting, in a perverse sort of way. Harry was familiar with bigotry; knowing this world had it too made it seem a little less an abstract and overwhelming fantasy, a little more like her new reality that she could navigate and work to change.

Harry was roused from her musing a sharp click and she looked around, startled, before relaxing. Hagrid had rapped the wooden handle of his umbrella against the brick wall they still stood beside and she felt an immediate surge of gratitude that he’d seen her panic earlier and found a way other than touching her to gain her attention. “First stop, Gringotts – that’s the bank, that imposin’ lump o’ rock down the far end,” he elaborated at her incomprehending stare.

“Run by goblins, y’know. Yeh’d have to be pretty brave or foolhardy to try an’ nick anything from in there. Folks got a lot of bad things to say about goblins but they’re a proud lot and good at what they do. Lot o’ bad history between wizards and pretty much everyone else, but goblins more than most. So them havin’ the bank is... well, a point of pride for ‘em. And safety, I guess, if things got bad again. Some wizards can always use the reminder that they’re not the only folks out there and well, hard to miss Gringotts, ‘s as good a reminder as any.” Hagrid explained, keeping up the stream of education and wry social comments as they neared the great fortress of a building that dominated the rambling street.

The mismatched pair were greeted at the towering bronze doors by a sharp-faced individual uniformed in red, black and gold – this must be a goblin, Harry realised, and nodded politely to the attendant, who stood perhaps a head shorter than Harry. The doors were drawn open by some hidden mechanism and they were ushered inside. Now they faced another set of massive doors, this time burnished silver showing the colourings of age and emblazoned with an eloquent, grim stanza that drew Harry’s eye:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed  
Of what awaits the sin of greed  
For those who take but do not earn,  
Must pay most dearly in their turn,  
So if you seek beneath our floors,  
A treasure that was never yours,  
Thief, you have been warned, beware  
Of finding more than treasure there._

Hagrid noticed where Harry’s attention was fixed and smiled a crooked, humourless smile. “Like I said. You’d ‘ave to be pretty bloody brave, desperate or crooked to try and steal from this place.”

Another pair of goblin attendants ushered them through the silver doors into a vast marble hall. Harry had never been to a  non-magical bank but she doubted it’d be anything like this. Wooden desks were arrayed in two long rows, one either side of the enormous room, and stretched to the far wall. There were countless doors leading out of the hall, and milling crowds of people went about their varied business within. Unlike in the tavern, these people were busy and Harry went largely unnoticed – most of the attention she drew was directed more at her companion, and it was a new, immediately welcome feeling fitting into such a mundane activity of the magical world.

  
  


They were soon summoned forth as a teller’s desk opened up, meandering through the crowd as Hagrid shielded Harry from any unwanted jostling with one outstretched arm. “Mornin’,” Hagrid greeted the teller – another goblin, though he was assisted by a fair-haired young wizard Harry guessed to be in training by his meek demeanour, perhaps aged around eighteen or nineteen. “We’ve come to take some money out’ve Miss Harry Potter’s vault.”

The teller looked them up and down, focusing on Harry with the appraising stare that was becoming unpleasantly familiar. “You have her key, yes?” the goblin asked, his voice showing no hint that he was at all surprised by the feminine pronoun the way the crowd at the Leaky Cauldron had been. Hagrid grunted affirmation, rummaging in his pockets. “Er, hold this, would ya?” he asked, passing the cake box to the attendant.

As Hagrid emptied his myriad pockets out on top of the cake box – he soon ran out of room and took over the teller’s desk, either missing or ignoring the disparaging look the teller turned on him – Harry took the time to marvel at some of the transactions going on around her. At the next desk over, an aquiline man with sleek, silver hair weighed out rubies that glowed like egg-sized coals. When he saw Harry watching, he regarded her with a smile no friendlier than a drawn knife and just as sharp. Across the aisle, a short, curly-haired witch in embroidered scarlet robes took careful steps through the crowd, laden with a stack of embossed tomes almost as tall as she. Coins in unfamiliar shapes – the unevenly-shaped bronze ones with a hole in the centre she had seen before, Hagrid had paid the owl with those – but everything else was utterly foreign.

Her wondering was interrupted by a low whistle, Harry blinked before realising that once again it was Hagrid trying to catch her attention without inducing a panic. He’d replaced the contents of his pockets now, save for a small wrought gold key that he passed to the teller. Conferring quickly with his assistant, the teller then stepped down from his chair and beckoned for them to follow as he made his way through one of the many doors – a snap of his fingers had it swinging open and Harry realised dimly that the outside doors had been the same, opened not by a hidden mechanism as she had thought by simple magic.

“Didn’t wanna talk about it in the main hall,” Hagrid began as they followed the goblin down a stone passage lit by rows of torches – Harry had expected more marble, but this was easier on her strained senses - “but Dumbledore sent me on an errand ‘s well. He wants the you-know-what, outta vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

Their goblin guide stopped, and fixed Hagrid with a piercing stare. No key was exchanged, it seemed there was an agreement here that Harry was left in the dark on as the goblin nodded and resumed their journey. The tunnel flattened out sharply, and Harry stopped abruptly as the tunnel opened up upon a yawning chasm sewn across with many myriad rails that trailed and turned at seemingly-impossible angles everywhere Harry looked. She peered upwards, the great pit was lit from above as the great domed spire she’d seen from outside was clearly translucent, allowing daylight through. Harry risked a look downwards and immediately wished she hadn’t, stumbling backwards into the safety of the tunnel at the sight of the yawning abyss. Daylight didn’t reach that far, and though torches glinted faintly off rails in the deep she had been unable to see where it ended.

Rails clicked and a strangely-rigged cart drew up alongside their tunnel. It must have been drawn by magic too, for it had neither driver nor any mechanisms Harry could discern. Their guide stopped the cart with a gesture and climbed in, gesturing for Hagrid and Harry to follow. Stiff-legged, Harry kept her eyes trained on Hagrid’s broad back ahead of her rather than risk losing her meagre courage by catching a glimpse of the pit below. They were supported only by rails and wood now, suspended in their wooden vessel many hundreds – perhaps even a thousand – metres above the floor. Panic threatened to override Harry again and impulsively the caught hold of Hagrid’s arm, hugging his elbow with a vicelike grip as she hid her face.

Suddenly, their cart pitched into motion and Harry stifled a whimper at the sensation, it felt as if her stomach had been left in the tunnel as they plunged down, down into the dark. She risked a peek at their guide and was not reassured, their cart must have been travelling by magic as he was not steering. Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, their journey was halted and Harry was glad she was held steady by her grip on Hagrid, she feared she’d have been pitched out otherwise. She was dragged upright as Hagrid stood and then, on weak legs, she tottered from the cart and sank down against the wall of the tunnel they had drawn alongside. When her vision ceased swimming she was surprised to see Hagrid had reacted similarly, his face was concerningly green and he threw their cart a look of utter contempt. “Nex’ time, I’m gonna tell Dumbledore t’ send someone else on ‘is Gringotts errands.” he grumbled, though there was no real venom in his tone. Harry recognised it as complaining for the sake of having something to say, and offered him a brief, wan grin. “You know, in the  _muggle_ world, people pay money to do something pretty similar.” she teased, and was rewarded by his look of horror. 

Hagrid shuddered and dragged himself upright. “Not for me.” he replied decisively. Their guide was completely unaffected by their rapid descent, and strode along the corridor ahead of them to a heavy hardwood door bound in steel that was perhaps another foot taller than Hagrid at its’ highest point. Harry, now standing, leaned on the wall for support and peered curiously at their guide. She couldn’t see a lock, but the goblin’s clever fingers found it and inserted the delicate golden key she’d seen before. As it turned, the door produced a resounding click that revealed the size of the mechanism controlled by the deceptively small keyhole, and the door swung open. Thick, faintly purple smoke billowed from the opening and, as it cleared, nothing short of a minor fortune in the alien wizarding currency was revealed. “This is... mine?” she breathed, eyes round and wondering at the contents of the vault. While it’s contents were primarily coins, there were a few small treasures as well – jewelry, for the most part, though Harry was in no state to absorb any particular details right now.

The goblin turned a sharp-toothed wry smile on her, Hagrid’s was kinder and more genuine. “Yeah, lass. Your parents wouldn’t leave yeh nothin’ to get by on. They... when they died, it wasn’t exactly a surprise to them. They did their best to keep you safe, yeh know, but when You-Know-Who wants someone dead, well, they tend to get that way pretty fast.”

Harry swallowed past a lump in her throat. It was hard; after all the years of the Dursleys’ snide comments about her parents and the way they’d painted their deaths as a sudden, unexpected – by everyone except the Dursleys to hear them tell it - incident; to imagine her parents as the sort of people who could have cared for her, prepared for this worst-case eventuality enough to leave her this kind of protection.

“I... I never knew,” she whispered lamely, kneeling in front of a small wooden chest that she had found near the door. As she flipped open the lid her heart caught; the inside of the lid had a photograph of a loving couple holding a tiny, tousle-haired baby. They could only be her parents. Wordlessly, she lifted the photograph from it’s setting – the fact that it moved paled in comparison to the reality of its’ occupants. On the left, a wiry and untidy man with rounded glasses and thick hair like her own. On the right, a smiling woman, her long auburn hair pinned half-up behind her as she laughed soundlessly at some witticism Harry couldn’t remember. She had her father’s dark colouring, unruly mane and clever hands, but a more keen observer could see her mother too in the fine lines of her wonderingly tearful face, the red-and-gold highlights in her hair – more visible here, under the torchlight – and, most clearly, in her green-hazel eyes. Harry knew it not but she had her mother’s smile too, crooked and playful at first and then brilliant, the sort of inescapably visible joy that lights up a room on the rare occasions it showed. There was nothing else in the box except a diminutive amber necklace, the sort infants sometimes wear; and the weight of the memories of the young couple who’d left it here for their daughter to find so many years later.

With a sigh, Harry replaced the photograph – it was safer here – and stood, wiping the tears from her face. Hagrid had left her to her quiet communion and collected a heavy purse of money for her which he now passed over. No words were needed, privately he felt there was nothing he could say that could encompass all at once the grief at a loss experienced anew, the unexpected gift of faces to put to her no-doubt tangled memories, and the confusion and wonder of this new world that she was experiencing without them. No, sometimes feelings were clearer without words to muddle them. He was reminded painfully of Harry’s extreme youth as she took hold of his sleeve and trailed along as they left the vault behind, taking their seats unwillingly again in the cart as before. Sometimes the depth of grief in Harry’s expressions and every motion made it easy to forget just how young she was, at other times she seemed even younger still.

Once again, both Hagrid and Harry curled in on themselves as the cart plunged deeper into the earth. There was no glimpse of daylight this far down, and strange lights billowed and flickered. A horrific clamour drifted up from the depths and Harry looked up to see the pain on Hagrid’s face. “That’s what they use to keep the dragons in the high-security vaults in line,” he explained. “It’s even crueller than the sound, but I don’t wanna get into it right now.” Harry appreciated it, she didn’t think she could handle any talk of abuse and pain right now let alone on an institutional level like this. Their goblin guide shrugged and an unexpected expression of sympathy crossed his angular face. Apparently not everyone who worked here was alright with  _how_ it worked.  Maybe it wasn’t even their idea to begin with.

This time, Harry was prepared as their cart jerked to a halt after a much shorter trip. She glanced upwards, unnerved by how far down they were. The daylight from the spire was a pale disc. Some annoying mathematical part of her brain jabbered in the background that vault seven hundred and thirteen probably indicated they were seven hundred metres down with other numbers - say, three hundred and ninety – might be three hundred metres below the surface; the rhythm of mental chatter was simultaneously irritating and comforting in its’ regularity.

Realising she’d been staring into space, Harry startled and stepped hurriedly from the stationary cart on to the comfortingly solid stone of yet another tunnel. This time she was a little bolder in her curiosity, peering over the goblin’s shoulder. She’d seen no key exchanged earlier nor did their guide seem to need one. Instead, he placed his palm against the cold steel of the door and what Harry had taken for ornate design instead began to move, withdrawing from the edges of the door to the centre so it was allowed to swing free. Unlike Harry’s vault, there was no dramatic clouds of vapour, nor even the gleam of hidden treasure. Harry got a brief glance of a grubby paper-wrapped package as Hagrid hurriedly stowed it in his coat but nothing more. Really, Harry thought, after all that trouble it seemed rather anticlimactic.

After that, the trip upwards sped past and soon Harry was following Hagrid through the bronze doors out into the bustle and clamour of Diagon Alley, blinking in the sudden brightness after their time underground. “Right-o. First on the list’s uniform, right?” Hagrid asked distractedly, peering around for the right sign. Harry nodded affirmatively, expecting to follow Hagrid’s lead. “Listen, I need a pick-me-up after that... Gringotts carts an’ I, don’t do so well. Madam Malkin’s who you want, just down the street. Red sign, spirally writing, can’t miss it.” he explained, gesturing in the direction he meant. Harry bit her lip, the thought of facing the street without Hagrid’s reassuring presence was suddenly very intimidating. She took another quick look at Hagrid, and that made her decision for her; he was looking pretty green about the edges and more than a little shaky. They wandered down the street together before parting ways, leaving Harry staring up at the ornate front of an old-fashioned tailor’s shop.

Madam Malkin, as it turned out, was a short, gregarious witch with flyaway greying blonde hair and a ready smile, robed entirely in shimmering mauve. “Hogwarts, dear?” she asked, already taking Harry’s measurements as she stammered a response. “Got the lot in here – a young man being fitted up right now, in fact,” she carried on, whisking Harry deeper into the shop to where a boy of around Harry’s own age with fair skin, slick silver-blonde hair and thin features set in a scowl stood on a footstool with one arm extended as he was measured. His glare and his pose lent him the air of a boy king making petty proclamations, and Harry felt an immediate surge of dislike. Madam Malkin set Harry up on a stool next to him and set about measuring her too, muttering softly to herself about young girls being so skinny these days, wasn’t anyone looking after her? The chatter was a little irritating but it did at least confirm to Harry that she wouldn’t be getting a boy’s uniform, a fact for which she allowed herself a small measure of relief.

The narrow-faced youth appraised Harry with a cursory glance, his expression suggesting that he’d taken in all he could see and somehow found her lacking. “You for Hogwarts too?” he drawled, and Harry nodded mutely. “My father’s next door buying my books, and my mother’s up the street looking at wands.” His clipped, decisively upper-class accent that held the faintest trace of an Irish brogue was marred and flattened by a bored, arrogant tone as he spoke. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. Don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one, and smuggle it in somehow. Have _you_ got your own broom?”

Harry shook her head and was reminded strongly of Dudley, and as Madam Malkin darted about, wand raised and a mouth full of pins, she wished fervently that the mauve-cloaked witch could speed things along.

“You play Quidditch?” the boy asked her. Harry had no idea what Quidditch might be but felt that to show it would cause her to lose what little respect this boy had for her. “I do,” he continued – he must really like the sound of his own voice, Harry reflected, given that he seemed to be managing this conversation with next to no input from her at all. “Father says it’d be a crime if I wasn’t picked to play for my house, and I must say I agree. You have any idea what house you’ll be in yet?”  
“No,” Harry responded, feeling more and more left-behind by the moment.   
“Well, nobody really knows until they get there, I suppose, but I’ll probably be in Slytherin. My whole family has been, you know – imagine being in Hufflepuff, I’d just leave wouldn’t you?” the silver-haired boy remarked with an unpleasant snigger.

Perhaps half an hour later, Harry was glad to be freed from the increasingly-tiring conversation and stuffy shop. Madam Malkin’s matronly concern, while sweet, was a little overwhelming; and so when Harry left the shop she did so with an air of relief about her. This relief soon became delight as Hagrid greeted her holding two enormous icecreams – raspberry swirl, with chopped hazelnuts.

They stopped to buy parchment, quills and other supplies Harry hadn’t thought of; and Hagrid managed to work his way through to Harry’s anxieties in his usual, gentle way.   
“Well, I can sure see how that’d be a lot. Some people just like to talk, sounds like that kid was one of ‘em.” he said. “Hogwarts is a big place, and lots of kids are comin’ in from Muggle families. Not everyone’s gonna be like that. You’re not starting from behind, snots like that jus’ want you to  _think_ you are and be intimidated by them. S’alright. You just muddle along your own way, there’s a lot more places in the wizarding world than whatever him and his lot are aimin’ for.”  
Harry couldn’t help but be reassured by his honest manner and glanced up at him, flashing a brief, hesitant smile as she tried to let go some of her anxieties. Some remained, as they always did, but it was good to know she wasn’t really starting on a back foot in the way she thought. 

The next stop was books, and Hagrid had to drag Harry away from the towering shelf of curse-books. “I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley,” she protested, to be met with sympathetic humour. “Look, I’m not sayin’ it’s not temptin’ but you’re not to use magic outside o’ school except in ‘extenuatin’ circumstances,’” Hagrid cautioned her. “An’ anyways, you couldn’t work half that stuff yet. Study up... and besides, I reckon he’s a touch busy with the  _tail_ of a problem anyways.” he added, a sly grin creasing his broad face and crinkling up his dark eyes in amusement.

After the bookshop it was on to the apothecary. This time Hagrid let her wander and marvel at the contents of the shop. Harry had always loved science classes in school but this was something else, and she was fascinated by the many magical ingredients arrayed throughout the cluttered shop. Hagrid was all too happy to chatter about their sources – unicorns, dragons and other creatures out of myth were featured but so too were stranger things – helicopter-like  insectoids called billywigs, exotic birds whose song could kill or madden, rhinoceros-like beasts who held liquid fire. Magical creatures were so clearly a special interest of Hagrid’s, but Harry was perfectly content to listen and occasionally question as their names and features blurred together in a vast tapestry. 

Hagrid’s pockets now filled with potion ingredients of all kinds, they made their way into a dim shop with a peculiar air of stillness most unlike the street outside. Harry read the sign as they entered, peeling gilt paint spelling out  _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.  
_ A tinkling bell heralded their entry somewhere from the depths of the shop. There was a single dilapidated chair in the entryway in which they stood; Hagrid eyed it warily and instead seated himself on the floor to wait. “Good afternoon,” a soft voice sounded, clear in the still atmosphere of the shop. Harry jumped, Hagrid remained immersed in a book he’d purchased.

Harry was faced by a small-statured, thin man; his silver eyes, luminous in the dusty gloom, had the peculiar quality that made it appear as if the man in question peered into Harry’s soul instead of merely inspecting her physical form. “I’ve been expecting you,” he continued on, oblivious to Harry’s discomfort.   
“I had been wondering about you for some time. I’d expected you to look like your father, James. He favoured a mahogany wand – eleven inches, excellent for transfiguration. Of course, I say he favoured it but really it’s the wand that does the choosing. You have his name, so everyone expects you to be a brash carbon copy of James Potter, don’t they? But no... it’s in your eyes and your face, and the red in your hair. You’re Lily’s girl. I remember her too, not quite eleven years old and ever so shy in trying her first wand. As if she thought nothing would choose her. Anyone questioning her magic would be a damn fool, it didn’t take much to see she had a right talent for charms.”

“Wands, Miss Potter, are far more intuitive than their owners give them credit for;” he carried on, and Harry decided this could only be the Mr Ollivander of the shop. “Many a witch or wizard takes their wand for granted and forgets how inherent wand use is to wizarding power. There’s a reason wizards don’t let anyone else use wands, you know – ah, Master Rubeus!” Mr Ollivander exclaimed, a smile breaking across his weathered face as he finally noticed Hagrid; settled on the floor in the corner as he was it would be surprisingly easy to miss the bearded man.

With a flick of it’s owner’s wand, a tape measure unfurled itself from Mr Ollivander’s pocket and began measuring Harry all over. Harry stood stiff, wide-eyed and a little alarmed at the instrument’s very insistent prodding. As it brushed her thick fringe aside, she heard a sharp intake of breath and wilted under Mr Ollivander’s sudden, very intense stare. Self-consciously, she rearranged her fringe again to hide the knotted, branching scar. Mr Ollivander’s gaze was almost pitying as he took her in a second time, and she had the uncomfortable feeling the old wandmaker knew more about her life than she did herself.

“Ah, yes... the mark of the Girl who Lived.” Mr Ollivander murmured, his eyes tracing the hidden shape again, reaching out a hand as if to touch it – he missed, as Harry flinched away and backed into a shelf. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen and a half inches, yew with a phoenix feather core. As unyielding as the wizard who bore it. Powerful, too – that was important to him. There are many kinds of power, you know – I’ve always thought it a weakness of his that he could only see the one kind... Still, if I had known what that young boy with the hungry eyes would go out into the world to do...”  
His voice trailed off into papery murmurs and he turned away, inspecting boxes on the shelves behind him.

“Here, try this. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Unusual wands, beech – favoured by the old pureblood families for power, but they perform very poorly for the narrow of mind.” Mr Ollivander and Hagrid shared a darkly humorous laugh between them, and Harry reached for the wand. It felt alive in her hands as she turned it over, running one chewed nail across the engraved handle. Feeling foolish, she waved it about and Mr Ollivander seized it almost at once. “No, no, that’s not right... beechwood is cold, knowledge and change. Here -” and Harry, confused, was handed a second wand; this one longer and heavier, warmer and almost knowing in her hands.

“Holly with a phoenix feather core, eleven inches. Unusual combination that... I don’t often make holly wands. This one is old, not many need the protection of holly nowadays. They were very popular in His time.” Mr Ollivander explained, his expression turning inward on itself, darkly contemplative as the horrors of the last Dark Wizard’s war played in his mind.

This time, Harry had only to raise the wand for it to emit a shower of violet sparks, spinning and hissing when they touched the ground. Hastily she placed it on a nearby table, the fireworks ceasing as soon as it left her hand. Harry eyed it warily: the wand had felt like a live-wire in her  grasp , volatile, its power had hit her like a glacial torrent.   
Mr Ollivander chuckled dryly, replacing the wand in its’ box and considering Harry again. “No, that’s the wrong sort of protection entirely. Altogether too much anger and impulse. I wonder... hmm, yes. Willow, again with a phoenix feather core, twelve inches. Not a wand for the arrogant, they tend to grow with their owner and so again that makes them unusual now.” 

Harry took the third wand, cautious given her experience with the sparks. This one had a comfortable weight in her hand, and it’s power felt not so much like an electrified deluge as a deep river. The second wand was all raw energy while this one’s power was subtler, hidden. It felt safe.   
A pale green glow caught Harry’s attention, and she hesitantly looked down at it. The pale wand’s tip was surrounded by a soft jade nimbus, and she smiled at this display of magic that was  _hers_ . 

A slow, wondering smile spread across Mr Ollivander’s tired face, and he nodded decisively. “Like I said – it is the wand that chooses the witch, young Miss Potter. The resemblance is now even more striking – yours is longer, but your mother carried a willow wand also. Although... well, that is most unusual...”  
Harry wanted to ask what the concern was, but a lifetime of repressing her questions was hard to work past.  
Mr Ollivander though, was too perceptive to miss even a query unasked. “Don’t worry, Miss Potter, I see your question. This wand... well, it was its’ match that left you that scar.”

With those words, it felt as if a bone-deep chill descended upon the rickety shop; and Harry looked down on the pale, bone-like instrument with new trepidation. “I.. I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How does that work?” she asked, her soft voice trembling in the clinging air.   
Mr Ollivander regarded her with a crooked expression, half pity and half weary irony. “Each of my wands, Miss Harry, is hand-made, with an ingredient of a magical creature forming its’ core. Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring and phoenix feathers are what I most often work with, though there are others. The phoenix whose feather makes the heart of your wand gave me only ever one other; and it was that feather I used to make the wand the Dark Lord carried.”

Wandlore was a complex subject that Harry didn’t yet begin to comprehend; but that very tangible connection was a chilling irony. She touched her shaking fingers to the knotted scar again, feeling again the familiar twists and tangled tail ends. Her wand’s presence in her hand was warm, its comforting thrum belying the connection to this dark wizard she had so little knowledge of, but whose name everybody skirted around as if merely saying it might resurrect its owner.

“That will be seven Galleons – the gold ones, please, Miss Potter,” Mr Ollivander said, gently rousing Harry from her worries. She fished in her pocket for the purse she’d withdrawn from Gringotts, and carefully counted out seven heavy gold coins. Hagrid had explained the wizarding monetary system earlier, but the reminder of which coins were which was helpful as the names were all starting to spin in her mind.

They left the shop, and Harry was startled by how low the sun had fallen in the sky. In the whirlwind excitement of Diagon Alley she’d lost track of the day and now had to be mid-afternoon. Her eye was caught by the stranger, noisier shops as they passed, and she bumped into Hagrid as he stopped suddenly; his attention taken up my the rustling clamour inside what appeared to be the most unusual pet-shop Harry had ever seen.   
Its’ windows were dim and crowded with cages of all sizes containing animals Harry doubted she would be able to imagine; motley plumage and dazzlingly bright furs and scales all bound together by a muted cacophony of sound emanating from within.

“Was thinkin’, Harry... Might be a bit lonely startin’ a new school, an’ it says you can bring a pet. So uh... happy birthday an’ all, if you want.” Hagrid said gruffly, gesturing at the shop’s sign – _Magical Menagerie_ , lettered in flourishing gilt on a burgundy field. Harry blinked, stunned, taking in the window pets again. She thought back to the letter - _Students may also bring an owl, cat, toad or similar smaller pet. Only one pet is permitted per student._ A pet of her own? The Dursleys wouldn’t stand for it... but for now it seemed she was free of them. She didn’t want that freedom to end, even as a knowing voice whispered in her mind that it always would.   
“You’d do that?” Harry asked, forgetting herself for a moment. Hagrid smiled his gentle smile, and stepped forward to hold the door open. “’Course I would. Now, come on, let’s come find yer new friend.”

Harry ducked under Hagrid’s arm and stepped into the dimly-lit shop. She was met with a strong odour of manure, and the pungent air was laden with a babel of animal sounds – squeaks and shrieks, snarls and growls, soft hoots and hissing, and other sounds far stranger that Harry could not identify.  Flitting past rows of reptile crates and a wall devoted entirely to owls of all kinds, Harry was drawn towards the back of the shop where dwelt  creatures far more  feline and  familiar. S ome were sleek and fine-built, others craggy with battered ears and tired eyes, still more couldn’t have been long separated from their mothers. 

Harry’s face was painted with a rapt grin as she bounced from crate to crate, meeting each new cat with growing joy.  _An owl, cat, toad or similar smaller pet..._ “I could have a cat?”  she murmured wonderingly, imagining  how a cat might make its’ home in this new future that had opened itself so suddenly to her. 

A  p laintive ‘ _mraaow?’_ reached her, and curiously the  young girl peered into a lower cage. Her own green eyes were met by a feline pair that matched in shade, and a freckled paw reached through the bars to grasp pitifully at Harry.  Her heart melted at the sight of the tiny scruffy tortoiseshell, and she knew she’d found the right one. 

Hagrid smiled mistily at the two, and waved over the shopkeeper. “We’d like to take that cat, if you don’t mind.”  he said, fishing in one of his myriad pockets for money. The store clerk looked more than a little concerned. “For a Hogwarts student, one of the street kittens? You’d be better with an adult, surely, one who’d be of help to spellwork.” 

T he Hogwarts groundskeeper looked over at Harry again, taking in her wonder at the kitten’s antics. “No, this one for certain. Two Galleons if you toss in a travel crate and some basics too.” At this, the store clerk puffed up indignantly. “Two Galleons? We’re not a  _charity_ , Rubeus Hagrid!  Four for a cat, at minimum !” he snapped, drawing Harry’s attention for a moment before she was once again taken by the cat. Hagrid raised one bushy eyebrow at the clerk. “You jus’ said she was a street kitten. Yer adults and purebreds might be worth more, but you aren’t goin’ to swindle an eleven-year-old out of more money than that for a tortoiseshell moggy.”

T he shopkeeper withered under Hagrid’s questioning glare, and bustled into a side room from wherein he fetched a  wicker  crate, two metal bowls, a shallow metal tray and a bag of paper pellets, and a small leather harness and leash, worn with much use.  Hagrid stowed the bowls and leash in one of his numerous pockets and took the tray and bag in one enormous hand,  while the shopkeeper bustled over to the  kitten’s cage and transferred the complaining critter into the crate. Without any particular fanfare he then passed the crate to Harry, though as he turned away to the counter a private smile spilt across his craggy features at the tousle-haired girl’s quiet wonder. 

Harry fished in her pockets for the pouch from Gringotts, but Hagrid put out a hand and shook his head. “ Birthday present, remember? ‘Least I can do is pay for yer cat.”  he reminded her, and passed two heavy gold coins over to the shopkeeper. 

___________________________________________________________________

The sun was low over the shop facades as Harry and Hagrid left the pet-shop,  the former burdened with the inelegant wicker box . Hagrid checked the time on a battered pocket-watch that he produced from a pocket on his cuff, and frowned. “It’s getting late. From that display, I’m not sendin’ you back to the Dursleys.  Which means we gotta figure out some kind of fix. I’ll get you a room at the Cauldron for the night, and I’ll be back in the morning with somewhere else to go, right?” 

Harry nodded mutely, anxiety already rising like a sickening flood in her stomach. On one hand, there was the giddy prospect of even one more Dursley-less night but on the other, there was almost nothing in this world she knew.

A plaintive  _meow_ diverted her attention, and she turned the crate awkwardly to peer inside. One freckled paw reached out to pat her nose and she blinked, then laughed.  Of course, she wouldn’t be alone. Harry grinned up at Hagrid, clutching the crate against her chest. “We’ll be good for one night. So long as the Cauldron doesn’t mind cats. “


	6. Safety Net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank the gods this isn't as long as the last - I think I was a little more restrained this time. It's been fun writing even this far, how changing one element gives me so much opportunity to change more and more further in and explore the same world from different angles.  
> I spent a bit of time researching names here, because let's be real - Lady Vulvamort wasn't great at naming side characters, or any characters. So if we're running with Hermione as a young Black girl, I want to be realistic and fair with her parents' names with regard to history and the colour barrier in the workforce, given that they are established as a wealthy upper working-class family. As such, you'll see name changes starting here and continuing throughout, and I tweaked Hermione's mother's profession to allow for particular plot points later on and to give her more autonomy and character.

Harry awoke early the next morning to a brisk rap on the door, and again was seized with the disorienting panic of uncertainty about where she was. Fumbling for her glasses, she breathed more easily once her surroundings began to clear.

Throwing off the covers, she got out of bed and hurried to the door, straightening one of the straps of her pyjama shirt in some semblance of tidying up. Cautiously she opened the door, peering uncertainly at the unfamiliar face beyond. A woman of middling height and generous build, her flyaway dark hair streaked liberally with gray and pinned untidily back beneath a slightly crooked net, she wore simple brown-black  linen  robes  faded with use  and an apron, with a  tea towel hanging from one pocket.  She held one hand uplifted, and to Harry’s astonishment she had a covered tray balanced in the air alongside a second tray of tea service. 

At Harry’s uncertain  nod , the woman bustled into the room and set both trays down  on the small table and smiled reassuringly at Harry. “Leave them on the table when you’re done. Hagrid should be by in a  couple hours or so to get you. Key on the table with the trays, and if you’d strip the bed  before you go, I’d much appreciate it.” 

And with that, she disappeared, leaving a sprinkle of greenish sparkles on the floor where she had stood. 

Delighted at the surprise breakfast, Harry  lifted the lid and inhaled the smells eagerly. Perfect scrambled eggs, set on hash browns with two sausages beside, those covered liberally in a chunky chutney sauce. She’d never seen such good food in her life – at least, not that was for her. On the other tray was a small teapot, aromatic steam curling from the spout, alongside a delicate jug of milk and another of sugar, and a single cup on a saucer printed with a ring of knots around the edge. 

H arry polished off the breakfast in record time and, following a quick shower, she dressed and set about tidying the room. Sheets and towels she piled in the middle of the room  and then, having run out of busywork, she sat down on the floor with her back against the wall and started to read one of her new books. She’d purchased a second-hand suitcase from Tom, who owned the Leaky Cauldron, and Hagrid had left her with her new belongings to pack and settle. A creaky  _meow_ sounded from the suitcas e as Harry  settled herself in to read, and her kitten crawled out from inside a sweater to curl up at Harry’s hip, purring. 

_A History of Magic_ was not nearly as dry as Harry had expected, peppered throughout with the author’s scholarly wit and distaste for the elitism and racism of the magical world. Harry was by no means a quick reader, but she was fascinated by the complex politics and systems of the magical world, and sympathised with the author’s frustration at its’ backward policies and treatment of both non-magical humans, and non-human beings. Being mixed-race, Harry wasn’t unfamiliar with racism.  And as before, with her introduction to the classism of blood status, it made the magical world seem more real. It was just a different world, not some kind of perfect utopia, and she’d have the same fight here as anywhere else. 

___________________________________________________________________

A bsorbed in a deeply political explanation of the first goblin rebellion, Harry was startled by a  sharp knock at the wooden door. “Come in,” she called distractedly, closing the book with its’ ribbon as a marker.  The kitten, seizing an opportunity, crawled into Harry’s now-vacant lap and began kneading at Harry’s skirt. 

Expecting to see Hagrid’s broad frame, Harry was surprised instead to see a thin, severe-looking woman dressed in deep green robes, with a tartan band around the pointed hat she wore over her tightly pinned grey hair that had some stubborn streaks of red still visible in the morning light. Despite her dignified appearance, the woman had a kind look in her pale eyes, and Harry cautiously stood and pulled out a chair for her with the disgruntled kitten cradled in one arm.

When they were both seated, the kitten now returned to Harry’s lap, the woman smiled faintly. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Minerva McGonagall, though at school you should address me as Professor. I’m the deputy headmistress, and Hagrid arrived in quite a flap last night about you.” she explained, revealing a heavy Highlands accent though her manner of speech was clipped and formal in carefully correct English. “ Albus was not as concerned as I’d like, so I took on your case instead. As Hagrid made clear, we can’t return you to the Dursleys’ home, and I will confess I had my reservations about leaving you with them in the first place.” 

A rush of breath escaped Harry, she coughed and had to calm her giddy heart for a moment. “You mean, I really don’t have to go back?” she asked, her voice breaking on the words. The woman – Professor McGonagall – nodded, again smiling in that surprisingly gentle way Harry would soon come to find familiar. “That is correct. I have found you a place with the family of another student starting Hogwarts this year. As Hogwarts is a boarding school, this is a short term solution. You can stay with them until term starts, and at the end of the year we will look for a longer-term placement for you.”

With that, she fixed Harry with a searching gaze. “Now, another matter. I was under the impression that we would be expecting a  _Mr._ Harry Potter, but clearly that is not the case. I’ll make sure your bed is in the right dormitory.” Professor McGonagall stated, making a note on some parchment that she manifested from air. 

Harry winced at that. “Um, sorry.  E asy mistake. It’s... short for Harriet. But that’s a snotty name so everybody calls me Harry.” she lied quickly, she didn’t want to start her new school going into that sort of detail.  Minerva looked unconvinced but didn’t question her; unlike most of her magical fellows  the professor was somewhat enlightened about the diversity of human experiences and didn’t want to put someone so young on the spot about something so personal. 

T he matter settled, Minerva stood and directed her attention to Harry’s s emi-packed belongings. With a flourish of her hand and a muttering of what sounded suspiciously like Scots, the books and clothes neatly rearranged themselves and the case slammed closed. The kitten was unceremoniously removed from Harry’s lap and deposited gently in her crate with a displeased yowl.  The crate was then dropped into Harry’s arms, while Minerva took hold of the heavy case. She held out her free hand to Harry, who awkwardly wiggled one elbow free and held it out stiffly. The professor took it gently and muttered something else that Harry didn’t quite catch, and then with an uncomfortable dissolving sensation, the two were tugged into a Between-space. 

___________________________________________________________________

T he two were surrounded in clinging mist for only a moment, before Minerva McGonagall’s spell had them standing on a  neatly paved street in the mid-morning sunlight. Harry blinked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. Situated in a cul-de-sac, every house had a  well-maintained hedge for privacy and there was not a speck of weeds in sight. They stood before a stately two-storey home of a more modern style, painted a modest mushroom grey. The Dursleys’ would have bled with jealousy to live there, or even be invited for dinner. 

B riskly, the professor strode up the few steps to the front door and knocked. It was opened immediately, as if the occupants had been waiting for them. A girl of about Harry’s own age stood in the doorway, her brows drawn together. Her skin was deep brown with darker freckles scattered liberally across her solemn face, and her thick hair hung in heavy braids to her  shoulders “Hello Professor McGonagall. I’m Hermione Granger.” she greeted them politely, and held the door open. “My parents are in the dining room, if you would come inside.” 

A s they entered  the house, Harry glanced at the  well-polished bronze plate to the left of the door. It read

_Dr. E. Ndiaye-Granger, lawyer_

_Dr._ _D_ _Granger,_ _MFDSRCS_

Intimidated, Harry offered the girl – Hermione – a shy smile, and was gratified when she returned it. “I’ll take your things upstairs, my parents want to talk to you before you head up.” she offered, holding out a hand.  Harry set the cat crate carefully on the ground and took the suitcase from Minerva, offering it to Hermione. “Are you sure? Thanks,” she said gratefully, as Hermione took both and trotted off upstairs with another shy, shared smile. 

Feeling a swell of trepidation, Harry trailed after the professor down the  imposing hallway, and out into a sunny open-plan dining room. Two adults were seated at the table, Harry could recognise Hermione in their faces. The woman shared Hermione’s coily hair, though hers was elegantly touched with grey at the temples and the braids held in a high bun; while the man had Hermione’s slightly-upturned short nose and a heavier blanket of freckles. Both were dressed neatly and gave off the air of polite professionals, though their smiles were kind and their manner open and free of any judgment or haughtiness. 

Harry bit her lip, fumbling for her manners. “Em... Thank-you, for having me to stay. Your home is very nice.” she stammered, fighting the urge to shrink back behind Professor McGonagall.  Hermione’s mother smiled, and she pushed out a free chair for Harry. “Thankyou, Ms. McGonagall. You’re welcome to return to your work now, we’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” 

Minerva smiled wryly and with a shallow bow, she vanished in a similar manner to how the two of them had traveled there.

“Now, dear. Your professor told us a little, and we understand you can’t stay with your family. We can’t make any long-term promises on such short notice, but you are welcome certainly until school starts. We have a spare bedroom upstairs, and it’ll be so good for Hermione to have someone her own age around.” Hermione’s mother continued warmly. The past few days had been such a whirlwind, Harry could barely think, but that persistent hope remained in her chest. “Thank-you, Dr. Granger,” she replied politely, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m H-Harriet. Harry for short.”

Hermione’s mother smiled wryly. “I’m only Dr. Granger at work. You can call me Evelyn, and this is my husband Danjuma. You met our daughter briefly, I believe.”

Harry nodded assent, and her attention was then drawn by Hermione’s father – Danjuma – as he stood. “Well, Harry, let’s get you upstairs and settled in. You’ll be expected to help Hermione with the chores but don’t worry for a few days, she’ll show you what to do.”  he explained kindly, and Harry nodded again. She stood, careful to remember to push her chair in, and wandered off to the stairs where they’d come in. 

Hermione waited on the lowest stair, tapping one hand against the hand-rail. When she caught sight of Harry she stopped abruptly and bit her lip, clearly embarrassed. “I’ll show you your room,” she offered hastily, and so Harry trailed upstairs behind her.

___________________________________________________________________

D ays at the Granger household settled into an easy routine. Hermione’s father was an excellent cook and always pleased when Harry offered to help, while Hermione herself was studious and uncertain. At first the two were unsure how to break the ice, until their awkward conversation reached the topic of books. While both were new to the magical world, they shared an interest in the history, social structures and injustice within it, and Hermione was delighted to find someone else who could see beyond dry historical fact to the social implications. 

Despite their shared interests, Harry still felt as if she was playing a role within the family until one breezy Saturday she was vacuuming upstairs and caught sight of an enormous multicoloured banner stretching across one wall of Hermione’s bedroom. The Dursleys of course had been closed to any such thing, but when Hermione explained the concept to Harry, it was like a light went on inside. There was a name for  people like her and better yet, there was someone right in the here and now who didn’t judge. 

Slowly, and then all at once, Harry opened up to Hermione and was joyfully surprised with the acceptance and insight her new friend showed. Hermione’s parents too, when Harry felt ready, were unconcerned and accepting of the matter, though they did share reservations about how a transgender girl like Harry might be treated by the magic world. From their reading, both Harry and Hermione shared these worries, and while Harry felt a little guilty for lying to Professor McGonagall, she was more worried about the potential ramifications of telling the truth.


	7. The Journey to Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the fastest I've turned out a new chapter in a while. It's not perfect and I changed a little of my plans as I wrote, but I like what I've got. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for misgendering, anxiety, mild cisgender clumsiness, storms

It felt that the remnants of the summer passed in a blur, so quick Harry could hardly catch her breath. All at once September first was upon them, bringing with it the beginning of term at Hogwarts.

The morning was all a rush, and Harry soon found herself in the back of the Grangers’ tidy station-wagon next to Hermione, with her cat – named Calypso Morgana, after two famous sorceresses – in her crate between them. Hermione didn’t have a pet of her own, so she had been fascinated by Callie and with Harry had gleefully pored over the books on historical witches in search of a name.

While the drive from Hampstead Garden to Kings’ Cross was a short one, the London traffic was terrible due to schools and workplaces reopening and so they set off an hour earlier than need be to ensure the girls didn’t miss the train. Both were stiff and awkward with their uniform robes over their usual clothes as they stepped out of the car, both traded anxious glances as they retrieved their trunks from the boot of the car. Only Hermione hugged her parents goodbye, though Harry didn’t flinch when Evelyn squeezed her shoulder – progress, she thought happily as she petted Calypso with a finger through the bars of the crate.

The Grangers left both Harry and Hermione standing before the pillar that separated platforms nine and ten, as instructed. While there was no official statement about non-magical people inside the platform, they had been warned that it might be ill-received. Determined to give both girls the best possible chance at Hogwarts, Hermione’s parents had left the girls to blend in with the crowd of students. Harry couldn’t think how they’d get near the platform, but Hermione seemed unconcerned as they filed along with the crowd toward the pillar divide.

Despite the station being crowded, they were never held up. Harry stood on tip-toe, straining to see over the crowd, and when she got a glimpse of the answer she tugged at Hermione’s arm, amazed. “They’re walking through the wall!” she whispered, amazed again at what magic could do.

Hermione was less so. “It’s an illusion. They have to keep everyone else out somehow, right?” she whispered back, tugging Harry’s pointing hand back to her side. As ever Harry stiffened at the touch, but her flinch response was getting better after the month she’d spent with the Grangers. “C’mon, don’t point, we’ll get there in a bit,” Hermione reassured her. She squeezed Harry’s hand before letting go, having felt the other girl’s nerves in the brief contact.

The day was warm under the clear plastic roof of the station, stiflingly so, and Harry felt as if she had dozed off and fallen into a dream as she and Hermione were ushered through the barrier and on to platform Nine and Three Quarters.

The divide between the magical world and the one they had just left was not so stark here as in Diagon Alley, with all but a handful of passersby appearing human. It could have been mistaken for any other boarding school train, had it not been for the many caged owls and a greater-than-usual array of pet toads. As it was, Harry and Hermione fit in easily enough with the milling crowd and soon found themselves relieved of their trunks and swept aboard the scarlet school train.

For lack of instruction, the two girls found an empty compartment and settled themselves in it. Harry set Calypso’s crate on the seat beside her and fished the kitten out, allowing her to burrow into her chest. She leaned back against the wall of the train, contentedly petting the mottled kitten, and was so peacefully absorbed that she didn’t notice when others joined them.

The compartment door sliding closed startled her back to awareness. Callie burrowed deeper into Harry’s robes, and Harry herself blinked away sleep to focus on the newcomers. A taller-than-average redheaded boy with too-short robes and two pretty Indian girls, clearly twins, had joined them in the carriage compartment. One girl had a brilliant enamel butterfly clipped into her hair and Harry stared at it, envious. The other girl smiled brilliantly, and both sat down either side of Harry leaving the redheaded boy to squish awkwardly into the corner near Hermione. “I’m Parvati,” the butterfly-wearing girl introduced herself, and gestured to her sister. “That’s my sister Padma. Your hair is so pretty! I would _die_ for natural highlights like that.”

Harry blushed, running a hand through her hair. She didn’t think she was imagining that it had grown longer. “Thanks,” she mumbled, a smile tugging at her mouth. Her face crinkled up in joy and she hid her face in her hands for a moment, then lowered them and grinned openly. Parvati’s casual comment was an introduction to socialising in a girlish way, with light small-talk and friendly compliments. Harry had never experienced anything remotely similar, and the feeling it brought settled on her like a warm, persistent glow, bringing a sensation of validation and inclusion that even before realising who she was, Harry had never been familiar with.

With her motion, Harry had brushed her hair free of her face, unintentionally revealing the branching scar that reached from her hairline to her eyebrows. Hermione’s family, given their non-magical status, had been blasé about the scar after an initial shock but to the magical community, clearly it meant something else. The redheaded boy, previously silent, was wide-eyed and he pointed one bony finger at Harry’s forehead. “You’re him, Harry Potter. The boy who lived.”

___________________________________________________________________

The redhead’s words rang as if through a heavy fog. Hagrid had sheltered Harry from the cloying crowd in the Leaky Cauldron, so this was Harry’s first real introduction to what she meant to the magical world. She hadn’t been quite so ready for expectations, let alone an entire mythos; and it put a dreadful wrench in her plan to simply blend into Hogwarts as any other girl.

Children were curious, and that curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied by a deflecting lie such as she had told the deputy headmistress. Harry blinked numbly at the redheaded wizard boy, her mouth opening and closing like a fish in stale water as she tried and failed over and over to think of something to say. All that occurred to her was the truth, but her safety…

Calypso chose that moment to pop out of Harry’s robes, sticking her disheveled head up under the girl’s chin. Comforted by the warm bundle, Harry had a calmer moment to think. She had Hermione, unlike the last time she had been faced with this. Hermione understood. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to blend in, but if the boy’s reaction was any indicator, such a hope had been a vain one.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Harry shook her head. A wry smile touched her thin face as she considered her words. “Call it an accident of birth.” she replied. “Some people thought I was a boy when I was born. I’m just, not one. But for the rest… yeah, I’m Harry. Last I checked I was still alive. And it’s rude to point.”

The boy retracted his accusing finger hastily, hugging himself with his arms as a flush near as bright as his hair spread across his heavily freckled face. “Sorry,” he muttered in embarrassment. “I didn’t think- wizards don’t really _do_ stuff like that…”

Hermione sprang to Harry’s rescue, heated sparks flashing furiously in her dark eyes. “What do wizards do, exactly? Other than press everybody they don’t approve of into slavery or inferior life?” she snapped. If it were possible, the redhead flushed deeper with shame, and slowly the tips of his slightly-protuberant ears turned a very similar scarlet to the train in which they rode. As so many did with Hermione, he had no answer.

The matter settled, Hermione pointedly scooted away from him and closer to the cluster of other girls seated around the bench. The twins too fixed him with a disapproving scowl, and Harry realised it was up to her to rescue the hapless clown from social pariah-hood for the remainder of their trip. He seemed clueless, rather than malicious, and he did seem to be genuinely ashamed of his rudeness – Harry suspected a rather fearsome mother with a particularity for manners.

“Well, you know I’m Harry, and that’s Hermione. What’s your name?” she offered, extending an olive branch – or perhaps a life raft might be more apt. The redhead breathed a relieved sigh, then grinned a little abashedly at the girls. “Ron. Weasley, that is. Sorry you probably already – anyway. I’m sorry I was rude. I really do know better I was just surprised. My cousin’s like you. I didn’t know it came in magical people too.”

Harry hid a smile at the awkward delivery. Clearly the magical society was pretty archaic where diversity was concerned – not, she reminded herself, that she had much idea herself about such things either before her friendship with Hermione.

Padma, previously quiet, joined in at this too. “They taught us a bit in school, because there was a… trans, am I right? Anyway, a trans girl in our year, and she was getting bullied pretty bad.” she said. Harry sighed – bullying wasn’t exactly unfamiliar. She shrugged noncommittally, and shared an anxious glance with Hermione. Parvati squeezed one of Harry’s hands cheerfully. “Don’t worry – we’ll look out for you!” she promised. A faint reassurance, but Harry’s heart warmed at the idea of having real friends on her side.

Aside from the initial blip, the remainder of the trip passed uneventfully. They traded gossip about what to expect about Hogwarts, and for Harry’s benefit, explained a little more of the houses and school culture. An old woman with a snack trolley passed them, and Harry bought a small measure of sweets to share with her newfound friends – clumsy Ron included. They laughed over the bespelled chocolate frogs’ antics and then the lot of them settled into quiet study, all secretly anxious about what their new teachers might expect of them. Parvati and Padma had attended a small magical school in their community prior, while Harry and Hermione had gone to standard non-magical primary schools; however Ron hadn’t been to school before – something about there being no early schools where he grew up. He’d done some basic schooling by mail but was far less familiar with academia than the rest of them, and so the girls found themselves teaching basic points of history and general knowledge. It reassured Harry that perhaps she might not be so far behind in a;; this, if magical schooling for younger children wasn’t all that common.

All too soon it seemed, the train stopped. There had been a few short stops along the way to take on more students, but from what she could see outside through the rain, night had fallen and from the rustle of activity and muffled shouts, Harry guessed they had reached their final destination. She returned Calypso to her crate and clutched the handle tightly, brown knuckles turning white under her grip. All her previous anxiety came flooding back and she had to close her eyes tightly as the room began to spin around her. A steadying breath and Hermione’s hand on her elbow settled her somewhat, but still her heartbeat was unsteady like a fearful racehorse held barely in check, her palms clammy on the wicker handle, lank strands of hair clinging to her dewy forehead.

Harry lowered her gaze and concentrated on placing each foot carefully as she trailed behind Padma and Parvati, joining the throngs of students as they filed off the train like so many dutiful ants in their black robes. The crowd descended into shouting outside as older students dashed for cover from the downpour, while the first-years cast around worriedly for some kind of instruction.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years, file out, over here!” a thundering voice sounded out through the rain, carrying across the milling crowd of students despite the weather. Harry’s heart leapt as she recognised the thick West Country accent. She followed the other girls at a shambling run over to where the towering figure stood lamplit in the storm, a grin growing on her face as she craned her neck to look up at him. “Harry, ye made it!” Hagrid greeted her, beaming through his heavy beard. “Cat and all,” Harry affirmed cheerfully, holding up the cage as Callie complained loudly about her confinement and the wet.

The other first years assembled like so many sheep before the giant man, blinking up at him as they shivered, from the faint lake-blown chill or nerves alike, and huddled together in a feeble effort to escape the rain.

Hagrid coughed and cleared his throat. “A-hem. Everybody, pick a boat. Four to a boat, no runnin’, nice and calm please. ‘S a Hogwarts tradition.” he instructed, gesturing grandly to a bobbing fleet of coracles in the wind-tossed black water. He had a boat of his own, low-slung and holding a lantern at its’ tall prow unlike their own rounded vessels, and he led the way on as others followed with cautious steps. Despite the waves, the boats were held steady for them until they were released from the dock into the fleet behind Hagrid.

Harry was a little confused as for a moment Hagrid disappeared from view, fossicking around beneath the boat’s benches for something. He reappeared, holding cradled in his hands. “Anybody lost a toad? I know ‘e‘s not one of mine,” he called out to the students. One shamefaced boy raised his hand, shaking it in disgust as rain ran down inside his sleeve. He flushed a dull purple in the low light, what little Harry could see through the sheets of water. “Mine, sir.” he mumbled, his words drawn together by a heavy Scottish brogue. His boat slid forward smoothly until it drew alongside Hagrid’s, and the toad was returned without further concern.

With all students safely aboard, they set off across the lake led by Hagrid’s lamplight and the power of whatever spell that drew them. Tradition or not the journey was wretched, and all parties were thoroughly drenched by the time they reached the far shore. Sand clung to their sodden boots as they disembarked, and they trudged up the hill behind Hagrid toward a towering castle.

Forty students huddled in the doorway, vainly sheltering from the weather. Harry held her arm over her head and squinted through the raindrops coating her glasses at the heavy wood door they faced. Hagrid turned away from the students toward the door, raising a soaking fist as he held the lantern aloft with his free hand, and knocked resoundingly upon the door.


	8. The Sorting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's not as good in my opinion, but hey, I managed something! Harry's introduction to Hogwarts, some good genderfeels, peaceful cuddling cats. Enjoy.

The massive door creaked open, and standing beyond was a steel-haired woman with a tartan band on her pointed hat that Harry recognised immediately. Minerva McGonagall nodded to Hagrid and swept the door open further. “I will take them from here, thank-you Hagrid.” she said, beckoning the dripping throng in impatiently. As each stepped across the threshold they were magically dried, and sighs of relief rose up among those inside.

When all were inside and dry, Professor McGonagall let the door swing closed and took a place at the head of the group. “My name is Minerva McGonagall, as some of you may already know; but you should address me as Professor. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly but before it can, all of you must be sorted into your houses. Your house is your second family at Hogwarts, for sports and classes as well as daily life. Follow me to the Great Hall, please, and quietly. Those of you with pets, leave them here and they will be taken upstairs.”

With that she turned and set off toward the archway that must lead to the banquet hall, by the noise emanating from it. Dubiously the new students followed her, some making a short detour to the side as instructed (Callie complained loudly about being abandoned), forming a nervous little herd that clung together for security as they entered the brilliantly candle-lit hall, overwhelmed by the light and noise.

Professor McGonagall faced them again as they crowded the back of the hall, and at a brisk clap of her hands they fell silent. “The four houses are Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Slytherin, named for the founders of this school. Each house has its’ own history, and each has produced outstanding practitioners of magic for centuries. While you are here at Hogwarts, your successes will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose the same. At the end of the year the House Cup is awarded to the house with the most points, so you will find that your peers encourage you to follow the rules also. I hope each of you is a credit to whichever house becomes yours.”

On some unseen signal, a stool was brought forth by an older student and placed at the head of the aisle in which they stood. Upon the cushioned stool was a dilapidated pointed hat, crumpled and mouldered and ripped with age. Harry paid it little mind as she gazed upward at the ceiling, heavy with dark cloud. She heard Hermione’s hushed whisper, educating Ron of its’ enchantment and grinned, they had read about it together in _Hogwarts: A History_. McGonagall clapped her hands again, bringing them to attention. “The Sorting will now begin. Stay quiet please, we want this to go quietly so all of us get to dinner.” She instructed.

Harry wondered wildly what they were expected to _do_ with the hat – pull a rabbit out of it? It seemed the mad kind of thing they might expect. But instead, all attention was on the hat itself. The wrinkles and rips almost formed a face, and to Harry’s bewilderment the thing began to sing.

_"Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_  
 _But don't judge on what you see,_  
 _I'll eat myself if you can find_  
 _A smarter hat than me._  
  
 _You can keep your_ _bowlers_ _black,_  
 _Your_ _top hats_ _sleek and tall,_  
 _For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_  
 _And I can cap them all._  
  
 _There's nothing hidden in your head_  
 _The Sorting Hat can't see,_  
 _So try me on and I will tell you_  
 _Where you ought to be._  
  
 _You might belong in_ _Gryffindor_ _,_  
 _Where dwell the brave at heart,_  
 _Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_  
 _Set Gryffindors apart;_  
  
 _You might belong in_ _Hufflepuff_ _,_  
 _Where they are just and loyal,_  
 _Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_  
 _And unafraid of toil;_  
  
 _Or yet in wise old_ _Ravenclaw_ _,_  
 _if you've a ready mind,_  
 _Where those of wit and learning,_  
 _Will always find their kind;_  
  
 _Or perhaps in_ _Slytherin_  
 _You'll make your real friends,_  
 _Those cunning folks use any means_  
 _To achieve their ends._  
  
 _So put me on! Don't be afraid!_  
 _And don't get in a flap!_  
 _You're in safe hands (though I have none)_  
 _For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The bemusing hat concluded its’ song to scattered applause, and Professor McGonagall strode away to stand beside it at the head of the aisle. Hundreds of eyes from the six years’ worth of other students were on her, and the first years waited with trepidation.

“First up, Abbott, Hannah.” McGonagall called out. The group separated to allow a girl through, flushing pink with her blonde pigtails in disarray. McGonagall held the hat and gestured for the girl to sit on the stool where it had rested. With an air of ceremony, she placed the battered hat on Hannah’s head. It rested there for a moment as if deciding, before announcing in a thundering voice, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Confusing though it was, Harry was relieved – no great feats of magic were expected of her tonight.

The Sorting carried on alphabetically, through Bones, Susan (“HUFFLEPUFF!”) and numerous others. After Goyle, Gregory (“SLYTHERIN!”), it was Hermione’s turn. “Granger, Hermione,” McGonagall called out. Hermione stepped clear of the small crowd and coughed to draw the attention. “ _Ndiaye_ -Granger, professor.” she corrected calmly, pushing her braids back out of her face as she did so. Irritation aside, she took a seat and had the hat placed on her head. Unlike the others, her Sorting was not immediate and the hat took a good five minutes or so to decide. Eventually, the announcement “GRYFFINDOR!” was made, and Hermione joined the cheering table of students whose robes were accented with red and gold, grinning proudly. She locked eyes with Harry and mouthed something Harry couldn’t make out across the open space, probably some reassurance.

After Hermione the Sorting progressed quickly. Two Slytherins – Pace, Heather and Parkinson, Pansy – were sorted before Harry, and then all too quickly it was her turn.

“Potter, _Harriet_ ” Professor McGonagall announced, beckoning Harry forward with a kind smile warming her stern features. A chorus of whispers followed Harry’s every step up the aisle, too many to make out.

Harry sat down on the stool and anxiously peered up at the hat, as Professor McGonagall lowered it onto her head. It fell down around her ears, and Harry was startled to hear its’ gravelly voice echoing in her head. _“You’re a tricky one, Miss Potter. Clever, to protect yourself instead of diving in headfirst. You’ve a thirst to prove yourself and no shortage of talent... Slytherin could be a good fit for you.”_ It wondered. Harry shook her head desperately, _Not Slytherin! Not there._ The hat’s voice in her head chuckled. _“No, you’re quite right. You’re ambitious, but it’s not the drive in your heart. Intelligent too, but it’s not a thirst for knowledge that spurs you either... Brave, yes. Better be...”_ it muttered darkly. “GRYFFINDOR!” it decided, to another round of applause. Beaming, Harry took off the hat and joined Hermione at the Gryffindor table. Two redheads bearing a resemblance to Ron took up a chant, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” to resounding cheers along the table. The rest of the Sorting blurred together after that. Parvati and Ron joined their table, though Padma was sorted into Ravenclaw

Harry looked at her empty gilt-edged plate, her stomach growling. The food on the train seemed a distant memory and she wondered ill-temperedly when the teachers would get on with the rest of the evening. As if in response to her internal grumbling, a rail-thin man robed in brilliant brocaded violet, with long silver hair and an equally long beard, stood and clapped his hands once for silence.

“Welcome, all, to a new year at Hogwarts School of W-” he began, and Minerva beside him elbowed him sharply. He began again. “Welcome to Hogwarts School of Magic. I have a few words, before we begin our feast. And so, without further ado – Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Now, thank-you all, dig in.” He then seated himself again, rearranging his sleeves with a self-satisfied grin. It was left to Minerva to summon their food, and with a flourishing gesture a delectable spread appeared before them.

Harry had never seen so many things she liked to eat in one place. Roast chicken, beef and lamb, pork steaks and fruit sides, potatoes both mashed and boiled, salads both green and grainy. The smell was heavenly, so Harry seized the nearest serving spoon and set upon the feast with glee.

While they ate, Harry and her friends chattered with the other Gryffindors about the intricacies of castle life, and each-other. Aside from Harry, Hermione, Ron and Parvati there were six other new Gryffindors – Aeden Finnigan, a half-magic boy from Ireland; a freckled Scottish brunette named Faye Dunbarr; the boy who’d misplaced his toad – Neville Longbottom, also Scottish; a slightly scatterbrained blonde from East London named Lavender Brown who chattered excitedly with Hermione and Harry about their upcoming lessons in magical sciences; Dean Thomas-Adusei, a young Black boy who’d grown up down the street from Lavender but born to non-magical parents like Hermione and was incredibly excited for a whole new world of magical sporting; and an anxious Chinese boy named Eric Ngui whose family had recently moved to England for work and were incredibly surprised when their son showed magical talent. Harry was surprised to hear about the diversity of everyone’s backgrounds, she had assumed most were from magical families but some, like Eric’s, hadn’t had magic for several generations and others like Dean and Hermione, were the first magic-born in their families. Others like Neville and Ron were from old magic families but struggled with learning magic. The older Gryffindors teased and reassured them equally, that they would all learn in time. From the stories around the table, it seemed magical learning was messy and nobody seemed to have much of a problem with that.

As they all finished dinner, their plates were replaced with clean ones and the remains of the savoury banquet were swapped for an incredible array of desserts. The mood in the hall turned leisurely, and Harry ate slowly as she listened to Ron’s older brother point out their teachers. “That’s Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster,” Percy explained importantly, “and Professor McGonagall. She’s our head of house and teaches Transfiguration. Next to her there’s Flitwick, he’s the Ravenclaw head and he takes Charms; and Professor Sprout. She’s Hufflepuff house head and teaches Herbology if I recall rightly.”

“Who’s Slytherin’s head?” Harry inquired curiously. Percy gestured to a dark-haired, sallow man seated to the right of Professor Sprout. “Professor Snape. He teaches Potions and you want to be on your best behaviour around him, he’s a right devil for docking points.” he explained, with a grimace at his twin brothers – Fred and George, Harry had learned. “What about other teachers?” Hermione piped up. “I read Hogwarts has an incredible subject array, from languages to arithmancy and even defence against the Dark Arts!”

There weren’t many other adults in the hall other than those Percy had named, however. “Well, there’s Professor Kettleburn. He takes Care of Magical Creatures, so I’d guess that’s where he is now. And Professor Quirrell – the thin one, in the turban -”

Percy’s words faded out of Harry’s hearing, when she locked eyes on the man Percy had named. Pale and fretful-looking, there was an unhealthy greyish cast to his cheeks and a touch of yellow in the whites of his colourless eyes. Untidy strands of dirty blond hair straggled out from under his turban, which was a deep wine colour that only served to make its’ owner appear even more wan in his black work robes. Harry met his wandering eyes for a moment, and in that moment pain seared across her scar as if every nerve was scorched anew. She swore and clutched her forehead, her eyes watering. With eye contact broken the pain subsided, but as her eyes wandered over the sallow teacher Percy had named as Snape, another flash of pain set sparks to dancing in Harry’s vision and she doubled over in her seat. Stunned, Harry was only dislodged from her foggy reverie by a concerned Hermione gently shaking her shoulder. As ever Harry stiffened under the touch, and she turned hazy eyes on Hermione. “Harry, are you alright?” she murmured. “Everyone’s staring.”

Harry straightened up, straightening her hair and robes, and cast an embarrassed look around the table. “I’m fine. Sudden headache,” she lied, rubbing at her forehead one more time. However, her attack had disrupted the easy mood of the table and Percy stood, rubbing his palms together awkwardly. “Alright Gryffindors. First years, follow myself and Nomi please.” he instructed. The chatter in the hall was joined by the scraping of benches and clatter of shoes, as all the houses gradually formed into groups and the older students drifted off ahead of the first years. Harry glimpsed Padma as Percy led them past the Ravenclaws in the hallway and waved, receiving a slightly sad smile in return.

The little troupe of Gryffindors followed Percy Weasley and Nomi Eun, their fifth-year prefects, up numerous flights of unpredictably shifting stairs. The prefects explained that the shifting stairs was supposed to be a defence in case of attack, but that it made everyday navigation tough so they should be careful to leave extra time to get to class in case they were caught out.

Eventually they reached a landing and halted as the prefects faced the painting that graced it, a remarkably detailed old work of a fat, light-skinned woman with reddish fair hair and flowing pink dress robes of some light fabric, set in a wrought bronze frame. “Password?” She inquired of the prefects imperiously. Percy opened his mouth to respond, but Nomi beat him to it. “Caput Draconis,” she replied, and the painting swung aside to reveal a round hole in the wall. The first years filed through, the shorter ones such as Neville and Faye needing a hand, and all had their first glimpse of the Gryffindor common room as the heavy painting swung closed behind them.

The room was lit with candles, an enormous open hearth fireplace standing empty for use in colder weather. The furnishings were old-fashioned but well-made, the decor in shades of red with gold accents. Upon one wall was an enormous tapestry of a golden lion rampant on a red field, the house insignia; while the far wall was taken up with dark crimson curtains, closed now – but Harry guessed it would be a wonderfully-lit room for study in the daytime. The other students had retired to bed for the most part, but two older students rested on couches, studying. They closed their books and stood up when the first-years were led in, both wearing friendly smiles as they faced the students. “I’m Hollie Lamar,” a pretty girl with dark auburn hair and round wire-framed glasses introduced herself, “And I’m Lennox Zieliński.” her companion added, a handsome older boy with dark hair, strong features and a light lowlands Scottish accent. “We’re the sixth-year prefects,” Hollie continued, casting a dismissive glance at Percy in all his puffed-up self-importance. “You can come to either us or the fifth-year prefects if there’s any problems in the house, alright? Anyway, let’s get you all settled in to bed. Girls, with myself and Nomi. Boys, follow Lennox and Percy please.” she added on, sharing a chaste kiss with the boy – Lennox – before they parted and took up places on opposite sides of the room.

Harry, Hermione and Parvati made their way over to Hollie hesitantly, followed by Faye and Lavender with Nomi bringing up the rear. “Alright, girls. Probably a little early to be worrying about, but the stairs up to our dormitories are enchanted. Boys and men can’t get up – not even the teachers. So if any of your friends are boys, best tell them they can’t come knock on our doors if you’re late for class.” Nomi explained. Her words sent an anxious thrill through Harry, and she found herself turning to Hermione instinctively, as she had learned to do over the past month whenever faced with something frightening. If no boys could get in, what would the stairs consider Harry? What did the enchantment depend upon?

Hermione took Harry’s shaking hand in a gentle grip, and kept hold as the whole group followed Hollie and Nomi up the wooden staircase – this one, thankfully, not moving – to a hallway with a row of seven dormitories that extended around the tower. Harry felt warm inside again as she set foot on the landing of the hallway. The stairs let her up. Even stairs, enchanted by magicians of a bygone age, could recognise what so many refused to. Caught up in her joyful daze, Harry missed whatever the prefects said and found herself tripping over others as they started to move around her, tugged along behind Hermione as the five first-year girls headed for their new dormitory.

Inside was blissful quiet, dimly lit with a candle beside each bed. Each bed had a large trunk at the foot for keeping their possessions, which for now had been stowed neatly under their beds. Somebody had set up food and water for Calypso and another cat, while Calypso herself was curled up on what was clearly intended to be Harry’s bed. The beds were wonderful, a little larger than Harry was used to with drapes that could be pulled right around for privacy. Harry immediately set about getting ready for bed, anxiety about changing around the other girls rising in her as she fished her kitten pyjamas out of the trunk and settled on the bed; petting Callie’s ears thoughtfully. Making a decision on the matter, she pulled the scarlet drapes closed around her bed and changed in the blissful privacy they afforded her. She replaced them when she finished and settled into bed, laughing as the kitten insisted on crawling into bed with her as she often did. “Night, everyone,” she mumbled sleepily before blowing out the candle beside her bed. Others chorused their wishes of good dreams, somebody swore as they knocked over a candle (luckily without setting a fire), and the room descended into quiet as slowly, the girls drifted off to sleep.

Perhaps Harry had eaten too much at dinner, or maybe it was just first-day nerves. Either way her sleep was disturbed with bizarre nightmares, both Quirrell and Snape’s faces flashing before her dreaming eyes as pain split her scar again, and again, mutterings of destiny and darkness crowding her ears. They fell silent with an explosion of green and a piercing woman’s scream that frightened Harry into wakefulness. Reassured by the kitten’s warm presence under her chin, she drifted back to sleep and when she awoke the next day, she had no memory of the dreams.


	9. A Tumultuous First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione settle matters with their dorm-mates, and Harry has a really bad start to her morning. She and some friends have a run in with Peeves, and get lost trying to get to class. 
> 
> CW: Bullying, panic attack, meltdown, depiction of abused animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I was still writing! I've been trying to beat this chapter out for over a month and then when I got around to doing it I had to chop it off sooner than I planned because it got too bloody long. Bonus that does mean a significant portion of chapter ten is already in writing.  
> Writing with ADHD is hard, fam. My executive function just sorta... up and fucked off. I've had a vague idea of what I wanted to do with this chapter for as long as I've been sitting here staring at the little 'chapter nine' title in my document and just... no words appeared. Oh my god. It's horrible. Every time I looked at the document my brain ran away crying. But it's DONE now. 
> 
> As in the summary, a content warning for bullying and depiction of a meltdown and neurodiverse distress has to be reiterated as well as a specific reiteration of the warning for depiction of an abused animal. Every time I think about poor Fluffy in that room all alone I get all sad so you get to be sad too, but I'm aware it's also gonna be pretty rough for anyone who's not had experience with rescue animals the way I have so please do read with a friend if you think it may affect you.

Early the next morning, Harry was awoken by the whispering commotion of her dormmates and the distinctly strident tone of an aggrieved Hermione. “She’s a  _girl_ , you heard what Nomi said – and the stairs let her up!”

Harry groaned and rubbed her eyes, sitting up in bed. “Yeah, we’ve established I’m a girl, why is everyone yelling about it?” she grumbled. Hermione faced a shame-faced Lavender, the other girl’s blonde braids in disarray as she glared at Hermione. Harry stretched,  disturbing her kitten who promptly crawled into her lap as she leaned back against the headboard of the bed to consider her roommate through a blurry morning haze.

Lavender scowled. “The story always went, you were the  _Boy_ who Lived. Now suddenly you’re here being a girl and all, doesn’t make sense.” she snapped, and flounced out of the roo m, slamming the bedroom door as she went. 

Harry pushed her disheveled hair out of her face and scrubbed at her eyes, stroking a purring Calypso’s ears with one hand as she fumbled for her glasses with the other. Now able to see, she looked around the room for anything, a sign of dislike or distrust.  Parvati and Hermione already knew, Lavender was in a flap, so that left only Faye out of the loop. The pretty brunette smiled, and shook her head. “Purebloods. They’re so uptight about new things. You’re jus’ trans, right? The stairs let you up, so no argument from me. One of my mums is too, it caused  this big fight with the grandparents. Like I said – uptight.” she grumbled, blowing a wisp of hair out of her face. The others agreed, Faye still muttering ill-temperedly about uptight magical folks and ‘the prudey bloody Brits’. 

With no other complaint from her dorm-mates, Harry  dressed hurriedly and followed her fellow first-years down the stairs to the Gryffindor common room,  bouncing her forearm off her hip in time with the stairs as she navigated them cautiously. 

Her school shoes clicked on the stairs and felt stiff on her feet, and the stairwell echoed painfully with an overlapping din as everyone else’s steps rang out the same  in the still indoor air. Harry shook her head to clear it, and shrunk into her robes to escape the overwhelming  racket somewhat. Callie, nestled in her robes, let out a complaining whine and dug her claws into Harry’s ribs. 

Distracted by the brief pain  amid the noise, Harry misplaced her foot on a stair and tumbled down the last few to the dusty wood panelled floor of the wider common room.  She landed hard, one bony shoulder colliding with the floor as she curled protectively around her cat. Fortunate for the cat, it was Harry’s thin frame that bore the fall as she landed on her right side, arms shielding the kitten in her robes. 

F or a moment, Harry wasn’t really sure which way was up as dizzy stars crowded her vision and the shapes of her housemates’ legs blurred and tangled together. The painful ringing of their footsteps couldn’t quite cover up somebody’s voice as they muttered “Bet she’s just trying to look up skirts,”  their malicious snicker fading in and out of her hearing as the crowd blithely moved  on  past the dazed girl. 

E ventually the chaotic clamour stilled, and Harry was able to stiffly reorient herself,  letting Calypso tumble free of her now-untucked shirt with a disgruntled scratchy meow. Harry leaned against the wall, adjusting her crooked glasses and straightening her clothes  and letting her senses drift back. 

She opened her eyes to see a worried Hermione, with Parvati a few steps behind as they were some of the last down the stairs. “ Harry! Are you hurt?” Hermione asked, her fingers twisted in her skirt and tapping out a repetitive rhythm of interchanging fingers against the pad of her thumb. Harry shook her head mutely. Her mouth tasted of copper and iron and her right side ached, but nothing felt broken – or at least, no more broken than usual. Her words stuck in her throat, and she felt treacherous tears sting at the corners of her eyes; she dug her nails into her palms and pushed through it. “’M fine,” she mumbled, her voice a little hoarse. “Can we ju- s- jus- t, just, go to b-breakfast?” she managed to whisper, wilting under the attention of even her concerned friends. 

Callie wound around her ankles and Harry crouched to retrieve the cat. The rhythm of the incorrigibly cheerful little creature’s low purr resonated in Harry’s hands, the sensation calming the scattered girl somewhat. Her friends didn’t seem terribly convinced that Harry was fine, but aside from some shared looks they didn’t make much an issue of it as they wandered down to  the Hall for breakfast.

Since the feast last night, Harry had some idea of what to expect and after her rough morning start, it served only to worsen her anxiety.  Still cradling Callie in her arms, she  stuck close behind Hermione  and braced herself for the cacophony that drifted up out of the hall, audible even as far up the staircases as they were. Unsurprisingly,  an intact pre-tenth century castle had horrible acoustics. 

H ermione seemed similarly affected by the riot of colours and sounds and movement as the three girls entered the Great Hall a little late for breakfast. Timidly she slipped her hand into Harry’s and clutched it tightly. Harry as ever was startled by the contact but she could feel Hermione’s trembling  and the racing of the pulse in her wrist , and set aside her own anxiety for her friend in the moment.  The contact, startling at first, calmed Harry too even as she shrank under the stares of other students, and together the three girls found a place in the far corner of the hall. Officially that was the Ravenclaw table, but Harry recognised her housemate Faye and besides, it was the only free space where they’d not be crowded. 

The three of them offered shy greetings to the handful of Ravenclaw first-years, and Parvati’s sister Padma introduced them to her own friends – a pretty, humorous Asian Irish girl named Emilia Moon and a cynical red-haired Scottish girl named Morag McDougal; who Harry soon fell into conversation with about magical sports,  with Parvati offering occasional comment . Unknown previously to Harry, both her parents had been Quidditch players and she felt an unfamiliar competitive excitement at the idea of the sport. Being small, poor and socially ostracised in school she’d never had much an opportunity for sports but as Morag chattered animatedly about the mechanics and strategies of Quidditch, Harry  found herself genuinely interested by the whole concept. Hermione, Emilia and Padma all discussed their new classes, and Harry wondered how they remembered to eat in the midst of their talking as she struggled to multitask herself. 

T owards the end of breakfast, a stack of heavy parchment cards were passed down the table, distributing themselves to the owners of the name at the top of each. The three misplaced Gryffindors received theirs as they sailed across the room from the Gryffindor table, and on opening them they proved to be class schedules, one for the first week and one that would remain for the rest of the term following. 

All were excited at the prospect of finally doing real magic, especially as the schedule listed Transfiguration as their first class of the day. The schedule informed them that they had three classes a day for their first week, including one double class each day. Following Transfiguration was listed History of Magic, and the groans down the table echoed Harry’s sentiment – the set text for that class was incredibly wizarding-centric, and incredibly dry. Some senior Ravenclaws muttered darkly about getting the propoganda started early, which cynical Harry and Hermione couldn’t help agreeing on. And after History of Magic, their final class of the day would be double Charms, which most looked on much more positively. The Charms professor, Flitwick, was also head of Ravenclaw house and the other Ravenclaws reported him to be an insightful teacher dedicated to offering fair education both inside his more academically-inclined house and to the rest of the school. After the jaded reception to History of Magic, the fond praise of the Charms class made them all a little more excited for their day. 

Breakfast seemed to drag on for hours and be over in minutes, and their little group found itself swept out of the Great Hall amid a crowd of other students, the first years in search of Transfiguration which, according to the timetable, the Gryffindors shared the classtime with the Ravenclaws along with History of Magic. 

As the crowd thinned out and students went their separate ways to class, Harry fished her cat out of her shirt and set her on her own feet, the day was growing too warm already. Their little group fell in with a handful of other Gryffindors, among them Faye and Ron, on their way to class and they shared gossip about the parts of the castle they passed through as Ron had years worth of stories from his brothers. 

In particular, he mentioned the stairs. For some addled reason, the stairs at Hogwarts moved every so often and not even on a set timetable – which bothered Harry and Hermione immensely, there then being no way to compensate for it. Some had trick steps that would trap your foot, others turned into slides occasionally, still more took great pleasure in leading to trick landings and doors that weren’t actually doors. 

Distracted by the discussion of Hogwarts’ baffling architectural quirks, the little group were caught unawares by what was at Harry’s best guess a ghost – if ghosts were ordinarily dressed in brilliant scarlet and tangerine and fond of sliding down bannisters. The group were part of the way up an enormous staircase when they encountered this particularly obnoxious denizen of the stairway, and several covered their ears as it whooped in delight upon noticing them. 

“Firsties! Ickle firsties! Oh, this is the best time of the year! Peeves can reuse all his favourite pranks!” it – he, crowed gleefully, breezing about through the group tangling hair, flipping cloak hoods over faces, disrupting bags and generally making himself a menace. He stopped, one finger extended, before a wide-eyed Calypso, making kissy faces at her. “Aaaaah, kitty! BOOP!” he exclaimed, startling the kitten with a prod of his semi-corporeal finger to her nose. Before Harry or the others could react, Peeves snatched up the kitten and whirled away up the steps, a trail of kitty-babble still drifting down to them. 

The students shook off their shock, some kneeling to retrieve spilled supplies, others having to head back down the stairs to collect theirs. Harry, Hermione, Faye and of all surprises, Ron, were the first to react and the four of them dashed up the staircase after Peeves; Ron managing a harried commentary. “That’s the castle poltergeist,” he explained to them as they ran, skidding around a landing and up another flight of stairs after the still-cackling ghost. “Kinda combination of a ghost and a mischief spirit. No idea who he was when he was alive, even he probably doesn’t know. My brothers told me, we gotta catch him – he’ll get bored and leave the cat in a tree or somethin’” he added, his long legs carrying him ahead of the shorter girls  up the stairs. 

By the time they caught up to him, Peeves had vanished, leaving the four of them staring up at the cat who was perched atop a framed painting of absolutely nothing. Callie meowed plaintively, stretching one freckled paw down into thin air as she tried to reach them – she was too high for anyone, even Ron, to reach. Harry chewed her lip and flapped her left hand anxiously, Hermione’s tapping pattern increasing to a frantic  speed as both froze, unable to think of what to do. It was Ron who rescued them, casting around the group in search of a plan. “Faye, you’re the shortest. Lemme lift you up, it’s only about an extra foot.” he offered, planting his feet wide and bracing a shoulder against the wall beside the painting. Faye nodded briskly and stepped into his cupped hands, leaning forwards against the wall. Callie hissed and backed away, teetering on the edge of the painting, and Faye received a claw to the wrist as she managed to grab the little cat by the scruff. She cradled the angry kitten against her chest as Ron let her down again, but she didn’t manage to keep hold for long as Callie sank her teeth into her thumb. Swearing profusely, Faye slipped as she stepped from Ron’s hand and dropped the tiny tortoiseshell as she grabbed for the landing rail to steady herself. Clearly at this point Callie was not here for any kind of rescue and the kitten dashed off up another flight of stairs. Ron groaned and reached out a hand to shake Hermione, immediately removing it as she whipped around to glare at him. Roused from her panic at least, Hermione took Harry’s hand again gently. “C’mon, just another staircase,” she murmured urgently, shifting from foot to foot – Hogwarts was a big castle to lose a four month old kitten in. 

Her words didn’t really register to Harry, but the urgency did and with Hermione’s hand clutched in her white-knuckled grip Harry followed her and the others up the next staircase.

Luckily, they didn’t have far to go. About three-quarters of the way up they saw Callie, and it looked like she’d managed to slip into one of the trick stairs that Ron had been telling them about. They all slowed and Harry moved ahead of the group, still silent, murmuring wordless shushing sounds to comfort the panicked kitten. She felt the tiny body’s frantic heartbeat under her sensitive fingers, the coiled tension and panic and stroked Callie quietly, feeling it slowly begin to ebb away as she stroked the soft, tufty fur into patterns with her fingertips the way the kitten liked. Gently, she reached into the trick stair – a strange feeling, like moving through corn gloop; and curled a hand under the kitten’s trapped back end to lift her free of the stair. The two then sat just below the stair, Harry rocking and murmuring wordlessly to the kitten cradled against her body while the others looked on, confused. It was Hermione who broke their awkward staring and with a withering glare at the other two she joined Harry to sit on the stairs. “Do you need a squish hug?” She asked softly, ignoring the other two to focus on Harry. Harry nodded wordlessly, her hair loose and much of it falling in her face as she sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, forming a stressed cocoon around her cat who settled in the hollow walled by her thighs and torso. Hermione shifted closer and hugged Harry close, and slowly Harry’s distressed rocking slowed as the pressure of Hermione’s arms over her own helped to calm her. 

“Please let go now,” Harry murmured and Hermione did so immediately, shifting away so that the younger girl didn’t feel trapped against the stair bannister. They both stood, and Harry had Hermione hold Callie for a moment as she shook herself, taking a moment to physically clear the last remnants of the panic from her body. She avoided the bewildered stares of the two other Gryffindors, and Hermione’s scowl told her they’d probably be in for a dressing-down after classes anyway. 

Taking deep breaths, Harry re-centered herself in her body, holding onto the rail of the stairs for security before she felt the courage to face the others. 

“I’m ok now. I’m sorry. I’m ok.” she managed, fidgeting with her fingertips. Hermione passed her cat back and she took solace in the kitten who provided a furry sort of barrier between her and the others. 

The others didn’t get much of a chance to speak – or at least, Harry couldn’t make what they said turn into actual words in her head. She felt it first through her shoes, a creaking rumble under her feet and  she turned away  , falling knees-first  back  onto the stairs and clinging to  the guard rail with her free hand while she cradled the cat in her other. “Stairs,” she gasped. Hermione was as ever the first to make sense of it and quickly gestured for the others to grab hold of the bannister rails as the heavy staircase began to move beneath them – just as Ron had described, although neither had expected it to feel so disturbingly  _wrong_ , the vibrations carrying through the structure to them set both Harry and Hermione’s teeth on edge.  Slowly, with all the finesse of a barge, the stairs swung across ninety degrees to a new landing and settled into place, the creaking slowly dying away as they settled.  The whole  group came to roughly the same conclusion – the only real way to go was forward, as by the rumbling this wasn’t the only staircase to have shifted. So the four of them, now less than certain of direction given they no longer had a poltergeist or a cat to chase, made their halting way forward up the stairs  to the dusty landing stretching into a dim hallway beyond. Lantern brackets on the walls indicated that usually this would be lit, but the hallway stood dark and deserted, cobwebs and dust its’ only fellows in the low light. Their footprints were visible in the thick dust of the landing, and a swathe of lighter dust marked a path others had trod more recently down the hallway and to a tall, heavy door set in to the stone  wall.

A s the four gazed around them at the unattended, empty paintings and searched for any way to where they wanted to go, they were startled this time by an imperious  _mra-aowr_ from off to their right. A tall, long-haired tabby tortoiseshell cat with orange eyes watched them almost suspiciously – could a cat look suspicious? This one certainly did. Hermione elbowed Ron and tilted her head to one side, asking for him to elaborate. Ron swore, though coming nowhere close to Faye’s earlier profanity in doing so. “That’s Mrs Norris, the caretaker’s cat. This must be out of bounds. Fred and George said he turns up wherever she does, quick, we gotta hide,” he whispered urgently, casting another  glance at the cat. 

She wasn’t there. The sounds of a shuffling gait and the thump of a heavy stick on the wood floor  heralded the arrival of someone, it had to be Filch, and with another ringing thud of the staff – a walking stick? - on the floor, the four of them were galvanised to action. They dashed into the hallway towards the only door they could see, the heavy one. Harry grabbed at the old-fashioned door handle and sparks flared around her fingertips as she tried to twist it free. “Hermione?” she asked, desperate not to be caught out of bounds on her first day. Her friend was already taking out her wand, and they all stepped clear of the door. Hermione’s face screwed up in distaste as she enunciated, “ _Alohomora!”_ , and Harry remembered reading with her about how the spell’s incantation had been devised by English wizards based on a fundamental misuse of a phrase in another language. That explained the expression. But it worked – a heavy click of disused mechanisms inside the door sounded and it swung inwards slightly, letting the four of them, Callie sheltering in Harry’s shirt again, into the room.

They piled in and slammed the door closed, leaning on it and hardly daring to breathe as the shuffle-thump of Filch’s gait drew past the door. The caretaker didn’t seem to notice their tracks,  and they caught only his complaints about the dust and teachers not thinking of hygiene when they set areas out of bounds even to him. Eventually he wandered away again, and the four of them could breathe again.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t much an improvement. A rank, sour stink hung in the still air of the darkened room, and as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the gloom she could make out a massive shape hunched towards the back of the room, lit only by a tiny boarded window no bigger than a book. The stench was increasingly familiar to Harry, and she grabbed Hermione’s arm for lack of words, tapping urgently into her friend’s palm – no particular pattern, just trying to alert her friend that something was wrong.

Something was very wrong. The animal – for it had to be an animal – stirred, and a heavy chain clinked somewhere beneath it as it raised its’ head towards them, sniffing the air. 

Dog. 

All at once, the huddled, indistinct shape became all too clear to them as it stood, another wave of stink washing over the four of them with its’ movement, sour urine and blood and infection. It was still difficult to see in the poorly lit room, but as the animal stood and shifted, the light was cast upon its’ thin frame, throwing its’ ribs into sharp relief. For all her fear, Harry was sickened with pity for the animal. It swayed on unsteady paws, dull eyes taking in the shapes of the four kids. Where Harry had seen only one head there were in fact three, noses running and all reeking of hunger. A light sparked in six hollow eyes –  _people,_ _familiarity, help?_ Three tails, tucked between massive hind legs, wagged pitifully against its’ abdomen and it took another step towards them, the single tentative movement swallowing another metre of distance.  Now the tiny window’s light illuminated a trap door the dog had previously lain on, now uncovered as it tottered towards them – this information was noted and immediately shoved to the backs of their minds, not relevant, not now . Harry jerked Hermione’s arm, too panicked and sick to speak, and behind them Faye fiddled desperately with the door  they’d come in as it seemed to have stuck closed again. 

To Harry, the next moments happened all at once. The door swung free and the pitiful monster lunged at them, straining against what Harry could now see to be a heavy collar and harness that looped around all three necks and under its’ chest, paws scratching desperately at the open space – as her friends pulled her away, Harry could see its’ claws were dull and broken, and the pads cracked and bleeding. Harry couldn’t quite process how suddenly they were outside the chamber again, the door slamming closed behind them. She didn’t hear Hermione’s muttered locking spell, all she could do was fall to her knees and retch onto the floor as her cat dug its’ claws into her chest in terror. 

She couldn’t speak as Hermione wiped her face and straightened her shirt, or as the three of them shepherded her out of the hallway and back down the stairs. She couldn’t do more than stumble blindly along with them, grounded to reality only by Hermione’s hand in hers as they navigated the new stair layout back to the first floor above the ground, where the Transfiguration classroom was supposed to be located. 

And so when they got there, Harry was jolted back to reality like a sleepwalker, staring blankly at the equal parts concerned and irritated face of Professor McGonagall,  barely aware that there was even a classroom around her. “Sorry, what?” she asked, shaking her head to clear it and none-too-gently hitting her temple with the heel of her free hand, trying to regain some kind of functionality. 

“I asked, Miss Potter, why all you have managed to show up to my class a full forty-five minutes late and bursting in here as if chased by a pack of harpies. Perhaps it is good that you are here in Transfiguration at all. If it happens again, _Ronald Weasley_ -” here she refocused her attention on Ron, who was trying to sidle away into a free chair – “I will transfigure one of you into a pocket watch, so you may all keep better time.”

Harry wilted under the scrutiny, she liked Professor McGonagall and couldn’t stop the repetitive little voice in the back of her head saying she’d be sent home now, she’d messed up too badly, now McGonagall knew just how disruptive she was. “Sorry, P-Profe-ssor,” she stammered, since none of her friends offered an answer. “We got r-really l-lost and there was this g-ghost? P-pesky ghost? And I lost my cat and-” 

Professor McGonagall cut her off with a wave of her hand, though her face had a kinder set to it than before. “Perhaps a map then. Take your seats for what little remains of this lesson, and be sure never to disturb my class in such a manner again.” she replied, clearly concluding the issue. Shamefaced, the four Gryffindors slunk into empty seats, rejoining the others they had been separated from earlier who promised to share their class notes afterwards – that, at least was some reassurance to studious Harry and Hermione, though both Faye and Ron groaned silently at the prospect of catching up almost a whole missed class. 

As Professor McGonagall had said, they really had missed the whole class. The day went by with little other event as the class moved on from Transfiguration to History of Magic. That subject was taught by a ghost, Professor Binns, and while he in question made much noise about respect, he certainly couldn’t be distracted from his droning by any number of pranks or snickering comments made by some of the less studious of the class as he ‘taught’. Hermione and Harry could really see the merit in the Ravenclaws’ half-sarcastic commentary about the propoganda of it all. The syllabus Professor Binns outlined covered several wizarding conflicts including goblin rebellion , giant wars, witch trials and muggle persecution of magical folk during the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, and magical law surrounding the Statute of Secrecy that arose from those. From what they’d read on these topics previously and the comments from the Ravenclaws, it seemed Professor Binns liked to focus on the human magical community’s victimhood throughout the centuries, teaching the students the value of secrecy and tradition; and callous disrespect for the memories and autonomy of muggles to at times outright prejudice towards non-human magical beings and creatures. It seemed very insular to Harry, and having spent so much time reading with Hermione – history and sociology was a favourite topic in the Granger household – she could see the ways in which magical xenophobia mirrored the xenophobia and intolerance outside of the magical world. Her jaded perception of the magical world as just another set of problems was thoroughly reinforced, and by the end of the class hour she, Hermione and some of the Ravenclaws had grown so cynical that she feared only half-jokingly that they might turn grey and lose all optimism for learning entirely.

F rom History of Magic they  were released and  wandered off to lunch for a little over an hour, which Harry spent wandering the grounds with her new friends, chattering away about Quidditch again to Morag as they noticed some students playing an improvised version out above the field. 

After lunch they split from their Ravenclaw friends and re joined  the rest of the Gryffindor first years and  a group of Hufflepuff students for Charms class. Some of them Harry remembered from the Sorting, but her overall impression was one she was beginning to get used to outside her small circle of immediate roommates and their friends – a sort of strange wonder at her overall existence, staring and asking to see her scar, and awkward questions about her gender. Unlike some of the Gryffindors and a couple of Ravenclaw boys, most of the Hufflepuffs had no particular malice or ill intent in their questions at all,  but it was alienating and uncomfortable nonetheless. So Harry kept her head down as they drifted into class, and settled with her dorm-mates and Ron  near the front of the class so they could better see their teacher. 

The teacher in question introduced himself as  Ingólfur Flitwick, and he was roughly three foot five. He stood on a stool behind his lectern to address the class,  with his first order being to kindly leave all of the History of Magic prejudice at the door lest he change their first lesson from the Levitation Charm to the Banishing Charm. Harry liked him immediately, with his wry humour and old Scandinavian accent. His initial demonstration of the Levitation Charm was to catch an unflattering doodle of him being passed between some boys – Basil Crane and Kiley Jamison, as Flitwick addressed them – solidified Harry’s opinion of the man’s good humour, and his teaching style was engaging. It didn’t hurt that the material was fascinating, and Harry got distracted repeatedly trying to calculate the physics involved in the charm’s action. Her stumbling block was the practical part of the lesson – she struggled with her fear of failure and intense shyness, and was incredibly reluctant to let her classmates see her fail. And further to his credit, Flitwick was nothing but kind to her, where previous teachers had come down hard on her for refusing to participate and labeled her defiant when she melted down under the pressure. 

Despite having not cast any spell – no one did, Flitwick was adamant that they learn from the ground up before attempting spellcasting - Harry left the classroom buoyed by good cheer to counteract the cynicism that the previous class had inspired. Maybe she’d do half-decently here after all.


	10. Friendships and Fumbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione have their second day of classes, and they finally meet Professor Snape who really has it out for Harry. Luckily, they have tea with Hagrid to look forward to at the end of the day, right? Yeah, sure. 
> 
> Anyway. Content warning for bullying, abuse of power by a teacher over their students, ableism both in manner and specific words, misgendering and thinly veiled transphobia, panic attack meltdown and trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I told you chapter ten was half written by the time I uploaded nine! This was actually intended to be part of nine, but it got so bloody long I decided to split them up. Tidier that way. Also, now the chapters are at a multiple of ten. Chapters are in the double digits now folks, this is PROGRESS.  
> Also, I got my flatmate to help me write the outline for chapter 11. Woo! I love writing like I do, combining some shit, cutting others - Lady Vulvamort added *so much unnecessary shit* to bulk out the content of her book and writing like I do... I need to do the exact opposite of that and cut it the hell down. So much tidier this way. We get weirdly excited by being able to combine two otherwise useless scenes into something useful, or have events happen within an existing scene rather than writing another one *just for that*, and just generally making it all fit together IMO much tidier. 
> 
> Anyway. Content warning for bullying, abuse of power by a teacher over their students, ableism both in manner and specific words, misgendering and thinly veiled transphobia, panic attack meltdown and trauma. I repeat: a SPECIFIC warning for panic attack, meltdown and response to trauma! I don't know how great my depiction of it is, but being autistic myself I did base it on my own experiences with flashbacks and panic attacks combining into a meltdown, so it may be quite vivid - I don't know, I tried. Reiterating that warning up there, again - please read with a friend or in a place where you're safe to go for help if you think this may hurt you in any way, PLEASE <3 I care about you!

This good cheer carried Harry through her evening studies into the next day, thankfully this time without the tumultuous beginning to it that her first had. Callie still insisted on accompanying her to class from inside her shirt or backpack, but as their first class that day was Herbology and Professor Sprout, the short, stocky woman with a ready smile and flyaway grey hair who taught the class, was adamant about no pets being allowed in the greenhouses. “I’m in two minds about having kids in here, let alone cats. She’ll survive.” she admonished Harry, who had to leave a complaining Calypso to stare at her pitifully through the greenhouse door. 

Herbology was also shared with the Hufflepuffs,  and Harry could see immediately why the greenhouses weren’t the best place for a cat – especially one too young for basic survival sensibilities like Callie. Magical plants didn’t stay put the way usual ones did, and while they didn’t handle any truly dangerous ones at their level, the amount of unusual toxins and defenses that the plants had... Harry didn’t like to think what could happen should her curious tortoiseshell shirt-warmer with any of them. 

Herbology was certainly one way to gain a new respect for nature, and Harry enjoyed the fresh air start to the morning – although truly, she had to wonder who thought to call the slimy, ill-tempered pot of tentacles a  _Flitterbloom_ . 

Following Herbology, they split from the Hufflepuffs to join a crowd of Slytherin first years for Defence Against the Dark Arts. This was taught by Professor Quirrell, the sickly-looking teacher Harry had noticed at the welcome feast. She sympathised with his obvious social anxiety, especially under pressure of snide comments from their Slytherin peers – among them the drawling blond who Harry had met twice before – but Harry had developed a headache by this time and struggled to concentrate on the material, especially as Professor Quirrell rarely maintained a coherent narrative to his stories and regularly changed topics in the middle of teaching them. 

Release to lunch break was a relief, and Harry settled with Hermione and Emilia to try and piece together some sort of cohesive understanding from Defence, since the lesson hadn’t been any better for the Ravenclaws than it had for Harry and Hermione’s class. 

Last for the day they had double period Potions. Harry was intrigued by the subject and already read a great deal of the set material, and the science of it appealed to her. But they’d been warned at breakfast that the Potions master, Professor Snape, tended towards favouritism in his class and since they’d be taking that class with the Slytherins also, it dampened Harry’s enthusiasm somewhat.  But this was balanced by a bright spot – a note delivered to them at lunch delivered by a very disgruntled saw-whet owl, that when Harry unfurled it read out in a meandering script she recognised. 

_ Dear Harry, _

_ Just wanted to check how you’re settling in, so would you like to come have afternoon tea after class? I want to hear all about your first day.  _

_ Hope you’re making friends – you’re welcome to bring them too if you like. _

_ Hagrid _

Harry smiled, she could almost hear the big man’s low Cornish accent in the untidy scrawl. The little owl waited very politely, so Harry flipped the paper over and pulled a pen out of her pocket to scrawl a reply (yes, would love to, see you 3:30ish) back. Most teachers frowned on use of anything but a quill in class, but the dry scratching grated on Harry’s nerves and energy levels throughout the day so for regular study or otherwise outside class she usually had several pens on her person to use. The owl nibbled affectionately on Harry’s finger as she rolled the letter back up and returned it to the owl’s little leg pouch, and she giggled at the strange pinching sensation as she let the small bird go.

Both  Harry and Hermione were in similar states of  rising anxiety as they filed into the Potions class. It was held in the dungeons, and while the light here was certainly kinder on Harry’s receding headache, she did have to admit it was certainly pretty cliche that there was a dungeon at all, let alone that it was where they held this  particular  class. 

Unlike their usual classes, there were scattered tables rather than rows of desks, and stools rather than benches or usual chairs – which Harry supposed made sense in terms of access to a cauldron. 

The usual class chatter died as the Potions master entered the class a little behind them. Harry certainly couldn’t fault his dedication to the dark and  dramatic aesthetic, and it silenced even the Slytherins.  The tall man’s dark eyes roamed over the assembled class, his mouth souring as he took in the Gryffindors. He halted his search on Harry, and raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. 

“Well, what have we here! A veritable _celebrity_ , I should have been warned so I could appropriately... prepare.” Professor Snape drawled, his thin lips curved into a mocking smile. “One so famed, she thinks she can bring a cat into a potions laboratory as if rules are for lesser mortals.” he taunted. Harry had forgotten about Callie who was curled up in her backpack, but Snape didn’t give her a chance to complain as he seized the cat and strode to the door. He tossed her out into the hallway, where she skidded and stared up at him wide-eyed before bounding away. A seed of intense dislike sprouted in Harry, and she bit back the flurry of anger that wanted to spill out at the professor’s treatment of her cat.

“Mister Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived... or I suppose it must be the _Girl_ Who Lived, as rumour tells.” he continued, a lift of his eyebrow on the words telling Harry he knew exactly what she was trying to pull off, as he toyed with his power in that knowledge. 

“You are here to learn the subtle science, the exact art, of the potioneer. Most of you are unteachable. You think with your... wands... first.

That will not serve you in this class. Nor will you coast on what minimal talent any of you may possess.  Wands away. We will be preparing a simple potion to cure boils. The instructions are on the board, if you have foolishly seated yourself where you cannot see then I suggest you endeavour to move to somewhere you can. “

Professor Snape carried on in this fashion, though as he had not given any permission to begin the class watched him with a sort of bewildered horror, Harry most of all. There was something very ominous about the sneering way in which the professor commanded his class, at once fascinating and fear-mongering with his talk of brewing glory, bottling fame, stoppering death, the whole hyperbolic lot of it. 

This impression was confirmed in the next few moments. “Potter!” Snape barked out, and she looked up from her note-taking with wide eyes behind dusty glasses. 

“Since you are our class... _star_ , perhaps you will have the answer to a brief theory question.” he drawled, with ever that emphasis on the jeering description of her social status. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Panicked, Harry cast around her brain for the answer – she’d read this, she knew she had. “W-well, it’s not the full potion method but those are the active ingredients in the Draught of Living Death, sir.”  she answered finally, biting her lip. Snape, on the other hand, curled his. “Active ingredients indeed. Before later refinement, that single combination was the potion itself with no other documented method aside from personal variation. This potion, even in its’ older and less stable form, is so powerful that references to it remain in muggle literature to this day.” he sneered, and his tone was such that Harry really couldn’t tell if he considered it the correct answer or not. She made note of his commentary, snideness aside, for later information – if nothing else, it was fascinating how references to real magic still existed in fairytales. 

“Very well, since you have a _basic_ knowledge of potions at least... where would I find a bezoar?” Snape asked. Harry fought the rising urge to respond with ‘an apothecary’, the professor’s manner grated on her nerves. “Stomach of a goat, if a fresh one is necessary. S-since it’s unlikely to find a goat at a moment’s notice, you’d be be-better to try the jar to your right.” she replied, her tone flat and tense with frustration. Random questions in class were one thing, but this teacher was targeting her specifically and she had no idea why. 

Snape’s heavy brows drew together, and he took down the jar in question to set it upon the desk he stood beside. Opening it, he took out a dry, brown gnarled lump – a bezoar. “A point from Gryffindor for your cheek, Master Potter. It matters not whether you are correct if the manner in which you say it is so rude. But indeed, this is a bezoar. Antidote to most common poisons, and not an excuse to slack off in your studies of such.” he continued, with another glare as he warned the class – though as with every criticism, it felt as if his barbed criticisms were for Harry alone. 

“Finally. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” he challenged. Hermione raised her hand to answer, but retracted it as if shot by his scowl, shrinking in her seat. 

This one, Harry didn’t have to actually cast for – and she resented trick questions. Irritation spiking at her words, she resisted the urge to swear at the self-important professor. “They’re the same plant. Also called aconite. Small, purple, grows in graveyards, surrounded by a certain degree of superstition. As the name suggests, they’ve been central to methods of attempting to cure and control lycanthropy, most successfully in the form of the Wolfsbane Potion.” Harry snapped, her temper flaring again as she summarised what she’d taken from her study – werewolves as a subject interested her, as  were one of the many groups marginalised by magical blood purism and supremacy  both socially and legally.

At her answer, Snape smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. It was more a bitter grimace. “And this, class, is what I meant about not coasting on existing knowledge or talent. Knowing how to brew an antidote is all well and good, but you still haven’t actually  _done_ it. Textbook learning will get you only so far in this class.”

Harry sank in her seat, the tips of her ears turning red under her hair and frustrated tears stinging the corners of her eyes. The professor seemed to revel in her shame, and turned back to the rest of the class.  
“And with that, you may begin.” He instructed, a tap of his pale wand filling the blackboard with the instructions and a gesture of his free hand sending the rest of the class to gather ingredients. 

Harry found herself separated from Hermione, sharing her table instead with a Gryffindor boy, Neville. He was as shy as she, and spoke with a slight stutter in his heavy accent – Scottish for the most part but rounded on the edges, as if he couldn’t quite hear it. Maybe he couldn’t – Harry wasn’t unfamiliar with that feeling. 

Unfortunately, Snape’s scathing criticism of her capabilities wasn’t entirely incorrect. For all she knew of the theory and context, she had no experience with the practical aspects of magic, and that extended to magical sciences too. She helped Neville as best she could with some simple mistakes, from what she gathered he was just too frightened by Snape’s name and shame teaching methods to concentrate properly. But between helping her classmate and her own work, she missed small steps, misdirected her stirring and other things that didn’t seem critical but added up to a potion that appeared nothing like the description on the board. 

Snape passed, his lip curling as he took in the state of her sullenly violet potion as he drifted on to the Slytherin tables, praising Malfoy’s timing and steady hands in particular. He was so occupied with aggrandising his own students that it took a biting acid reek and Neville’s shriek of pain to alert him to any sort of struggling with his other students.

Neville, somehow, had managed to melt his cauldron and the resultant scalding mixture flowed freely across the table. Most of it spilled onto Neville, but Harry went stiff and hissed as some splashed down her leg. Preoccupied with the pain, she didn’t notice the source of it until Snape loomed over her and Neville, his vicious grin said  _I told you so_ in a way that hardly seemed to belong on an adult’s features. 

“Idiot – no wonder your grandmother thought you were a squib. Anyone would know to add the porcupine quills _after_ it was removed from the fire, given that it’s underlined twice.” he snapped at a quivering Neville, the frightened boy whimpered in pain as his burned skin erupted in boils. Professor Snape then turned the weight of his disgust on Harry. “And you, Boy Who Lived – did you think it would make you look better if he failed? I saw you talking to him, making him think you were helping. Ten points from Gryffindor. Get to the hospital wing, the both of you.” he snarled. Harry’s hands trembled as she swept what she could of her supplies back into her kit, she locked eyes with Hermione who nodded, and breathed a little easier – Hermione would clean up the rest.

Her own leg began to sprout horrific boils and she winced as she stood. Poor Neville whimpered at even a slight touch, as she slung his arm over her narrow shoulders and helped him limp out of the classroom.

By this point, Harry was driven mostly by bitter stubbornness. Hermione called it the mum friend override – she could work through her own panic attacks  and meltdowns  to support someone else’s. Neville sobbed, tears stinging his burnt face as they hobbled up blessedly immobile stairs towards the ground floor, Harry had passed the hospital wing  during the previous day’s lunchtime with Hermione as they roamed the castle to better famil iarise themselves with the layout.  He mumbled some repetitive phrase Harry couldn’t quite make out, and tears stung her own eyes at the unfairness of it all – a better teacher should have kept an eye on a struggling student. She felt guilty she’d missed the crucial mistake in Neville’s potion, even though rationally knew she’d been busy with her own work it didn’t make her feel any better when it felt like she was being swamped with Neville’s pain and blind upset. 

Thankfully, they both made it to the hospital wing albeit with many rest stops. Both had blood, pus and other general filth all over their robes at this point, and Harry’s mouth tasted of copper as she’d begun biting her cheek at some point. A horrified woman in her fifties separated the two and settled each beside a bed. Harry settled on to hers to wait, as Neville was obviously the more urgent case, and took out one of her history books to continue reading while she waited. 

Eventually, the nurse had Neville improving to a point where she was able to hand him to an assistant who gently led the boy away to what looked like bathroom cubicles, Harry assumed to help him shower. Her leg throbbed, and she was immensely glad when the nurse came to see to her. “I’m Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse. I’ll clean you up and then you can change into fresh robes,” - the short woman somehow had a stack of clean clothes, Harry’s own clean clothes, and Harry just figured it was better not to question. “And then, before you head out, if you’d fill me in on what happened, please.” she added, kneeling to inspect Harry’s swollen leg. She fought the urge to flinch away from the touch, as  Madam Pomfrey removed the shoe on that leg and gently stripped off the ruined woollen sock. She went to push Harry’s skirt up to better access the injury, Harry almost slapped her as she grabbed at the bottom of the skirt and pulled it down again. 

Madam Pomfrey sighed and nodded, and a wave of her wand had the curtains slide closed around the bed. Another enveloped them in a transparent bubble. “I assume you’re transgender.” she stated frankly, patting one of Harry’s trembling hands. Harry could only nod mutely, too shocked by the nurse’s bluntness to speak. Madam Pomfrey smiled sadly. “It’s alright, child. No one else can hear. I understand you’re frightened, and quite probably uncomfortable with your body but unfortunately you’ve got this all over your stomach, and right down from your thigh, and I need to get an antidote onto it.  I promise I won’t tell anyone, and that I hold no judgment about it. ”

Harry shivered, tears pricking at her eyes again. Somewhere a clock ticked, setting her mind to mimicking the sound. She tilted her head back and forth slightly in time with it. “Okay,” she muttered miserably. She hurt much more now that she could stop to notice it. 

Having to undress for what was a relatively simple treatment was possibly the most uncomfortable experience she’d had so far at Hogwarts, and she squeezed her eyes closed for most of it, trying desperately to ignore even the relatively comforting sensation of antidote being spread – by wand, thankfully, not hand – onto her injury. Blessedly, it worked quickly, so Harry had to shiver in her underwear only for a few agonising minutes. Now she sat perched on the end of her bed, in a pair of jeans and a cuddly sweater she’d borrowed from Hermione and never returned,  wearing a spare pair of pink socks with rainbows on them in her school shoes. Calypso had turned up in the hospital wing some time earlier, and settled on the bed beside Harry. 

Madam Pomfrey sat on a bed across from Harry, the hospital wing now deserted aside from a sleeping Neville enclosed by curtains. “Now, what happened?” She asked, her kind face creased with concern. Harry pushed her palms into her eyes, it was too quiet to think and too bright. She took a few breaths before she could answer. “Potions. Cure for boils. Neville messed up because Professor Snape was talking about how great this other student was doing instead of checking he was doing alright. He didn’t notice until Neville’s cauldron melted. I was trying to help but I was doing my own work and I didn’t catch the mistake that made this a-a-and Professor Snape took house points because he blamed me and it’s my fault and I’m really sorry and please tell Neville I didn’t mean to hurt him, Snape said I did it on purpose and I  _didn’t_ I really didn’t I don’t want him to hate me-” 

Harry was cut off as Madam Pomfrey moved across to sit on the bed beside her, and then pulled her into a gentle sideways hug. Harry liked Madam Pomfrey. She didn’t state what she was doing, but she intentionally telegraphed all her movements so that Harry wasn’t startled by the contact, and she seemed to know exactly how Harry needed communication to work. 

From one of the pockets of her apron, Madam Pomfrey produced a clean handkerchief and handed it to Harry to dry her eyes with. She moved a little distance away, somehow intuiting how Harry found extended contact uncomfortable. “It’s not your fault, dear. I will write up the report, and how many points did he take?” she reassured Harry. As the girl held up her open hands, then another finger separately, she scowled and muttered something uncouth. “Have fifteen points for compassion towards your classmate. I’ll write up the report. You’re welcome to visit Neville tomorrow if you want to bring him to breakfast, and I’ll be sure to tell him you tried to help – not that I doubt he already knows it.” 

Harry closed her eyes and sighed, relieved.  She took a notebook from her bag and a pen, and set about writing on it – just a simple note for Neville, she guessed he’d be really disoriented when he woke up. “I-I’ll do that. Thankyou again. I’m sorry.” She stammered, her words all tangling together. Awkwardly, she thrust out the small folded page. “For when he wakes up. He’s probably going to be really stressed.” she explained. “And I’ll tell Ron to look after Neville’s frog – urk, toad. That. So he’s okay too. Thanks.” 

Bouncing her hands off the sides of her thighs, Harry stood and headed for the door without waiting for further comment as she’d reached her quota of awkwardness. She envied her cat comfortably settled back in her backpack. Harry focused on her feet as they crossed lines of marble tile, and was so engrossed in not stepping  _on_ a line that she collided directly with Hermione as her friend entered the hospital wing, clearly looking for her. 

“Harry, you’re alright?” Hermione asked. Her hair was frazzled, one braid had lost its’ tie and looked a little chewed. Harry nodded, spreading her arms wide to indicate clean comfy clothes, no more injuries, all good. She grinned lopsidedly as she fell in step with Hermione, the two of them heading out of the castle and across the grounds. It was a little closer to 3:45 now than either would like, but they hoped Hagrid wouldn’t mind. “I’m ok. Gotta get up early tomorrow to check on Neville though so I might not see you at breakfast.” Harry explained briefly. Hermione shook her head. “I’ll come check on him too, it’s alright.” she offered, and Harry felt a surge of affection at her friend’s insight – she knew Harry wasn’t really comfortable with the idea of wandering the castle alone. 

T hey walked in silence the rest of the way to Hagrid’s cabin, which was situated at the edge of a vast forest that seemed threatening even in the waning afternoon sun.  The hut itself was small – for Hagrid’s stature at least – and sturdy, and an enormous crossbow leaned against the wall outside next to a pair of  muddy  gumboots.  When Harry knocked timidly on the door, a chorus of barks started up inside and part of Hagrid’s face appeared as he opened the door. “Back, Fang! Back, ya wiggly bastard,” he swore, wrestling with what was obviously a dog behind the door. Harry tensed. In all the sick panic that had been her experience with the three-headed dog monster, she’d not had time to panic about specifically the dog – if anything, she’d been sorry for it. 

But the same was not true here. Dizzy memories of Uncle Vernon and his sister’s dogs flashed across Harry’s tightly closed eyes, ten years worth of terrible visits blurring and overlapping with the sound of Hagrid’s dog as it struggled to get loose. Hermione shook Harry’s elbow, to no use, as Hagrid opened the door. The dog managed to pull itself free of its’ master’s grasp – it had slipped its’ collar, not that Harry could really see, and she stumbled blindly backwards as it barrelled towards her, tongue lolling and tail wagging excitedly. It leapt at her and Harry threw up her arms to protect her face, so the dog’s paws got her in the shoulders and she went down with a painful thud, rolling into a ball on the grass beneath the dog. 

To Harry, it didn’t matter that this dog was licking and not biting her. At that point she might not have noticed the difference, as she quivered in a tightly curled ball on the dry autumn grass,  a high-pitched keen of distress becoming louder until the dog stopped, confused and worried, before beginning to lick and nose at her in earnest, clearly worried she was in danger. 

This all happened over only a few moments, and both Hermione and Hagrid lunged for the over-exuberant dog. Hermione managed to break through to it with a sharp enough voice that it couldn’t help but listen, while Hagrid knelt beside Harry. It had never been more apparent to him just how small she still was, sobbing and rocking on the torn grass. He tried to brush her hair from her face, but at her panicked cry he had quickly settled back. He looked to Hermione desperately for help. Hermione was hardly in great shape either, flapping persistently with her left hand and bouncing it against her thigh as she opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, trying to form a coherent idea. “Blanket. Heavy. For her.” she managed, her speech halting. She crumpled to the ground beside the now-dejected Fang, her arms around his neck and shoulders for comfort and her forehead pressed against his neck. 

Hagrid some kind of heavy blanket, much like a woollen saddle pad for a horse but much larger, and spread it over Harry. The weight of it bore through her panic and she stilled, her cries quieting. Hermione breathed a deep sigh of relief, releasing her slightly too-tight grip on Fang to edge closer to Harry. Now her friend was calmer, she could brush her hair from her face and gently combed it with her fingers, braiding it messily – she knew Harry liked the feeling, and also found hair in her face distressing. “Hey. You’re safe. It’s just me and Hagrid.” she murmured.  After a few more minutes of quiet murmurings, Harry sat up and leaned against Hermione’s shoulder, still hugging the blanket. It smelled of horse, which for some reason comforted them both despite the rough fibre of the blanket itself. Harry began to mumble something, probably along the lines of sorry and Hermione shook her head, gently squeezing her with the arm she had wrapped around her friend’s shoulders. “No sorry. You had a really bad panic, that’s not your fault.” Hermione murmured, “Do you wanna stand up? I think Hagrid’s pretty worried, and it’s starting to get cold.” she asked. Harry nodded numbly, and Hermione helped her stand. Hagrid took the heavy blanket from them and helped them  both inside , where they shared an oversized armchair while Hagrid perched precariously on a dining chair that appeared to be on its’ last legs, so to speak. 

“It’s a bit late for afternoon tea now but, well, I can get the tea hot again easy enough. You both look like you could use it.” Hagrid offered, and he stood to set a kettle on the fire. Harry still glanced fearfully at Fang every so often, but the initial panic had faded. Hagrid still saw, and he rested his shaggy head on one hand. “I’m so sorry, lass. If I’d had any idea I’d have shoved him out the back.”

Harry smiled weakly, and fiddled with the leg of her jeans as she was curled up beside Hermione, barely squished at all. She rolled the left leg of her jeans up, pushing her sock down and stuck it out to show Hagrid a collection of old scars littering her bony calf and shin, some so old they were white, others dull purple and angry against her skin She gestured vaguely at the rest of her body, then nodded to Fang who cowered in the corner. Hagrid shook his head, his brows drawing together. Anger was a rare look for the gentle man. “I figured something of the kind but nothing like... lass I’m so sorry. Are yeh alright with him in here now, or do you want me to put him out?”

Harry considered this, then shook her head, offering a weak smile – she didn’t want to put the dog out in the cold. He wasn’t exactly well-trained, but he didn’t  _mean_ to scare her. She reached out to grab a newspaper from the floor, and she and Hermione shared it as Hagrid fiddled with the tea. When he handed it over, she squeezed his hand gratefully, and the three of them sat in silence for a while as they drank their tea.  Something about the paper jumped out at both of the girls, the page it had been open to. Circled in messy orange highlighter as if the reader had struggled to concentrate without it, the article read:

_GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST  
Investigations continue into the now-confirmed break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, now widely believed to be the work of Dark magicians unknown. _

_Gringotts’ goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied that same day._

“ _But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,’ said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon._

Below the article, which both girls already prickled at the unflattering light it painted the bank’s employees in, was a cartoon image of a goblin holding closed a pair of towering doors, clearly intended to represent Gringotts. Seemed wizards didn’t like being told no and none of your business. 

The article  prodded at a memory, a recent one. A vault that had been emptied that same day... Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, if removing a single grubby package counted as such. Harry opened her mouth to say such and choked on the stuck words, her throat clogged. She coughed, spilling a little tea on the paper as she did so, and tried again in a tremulous voice. “ Hagrid?” she asked, holding up the paper awkwardly, gesturing to the highlit section. “ That’s the same day as we were there, and that package and all.”

H agrid’s usually open face went flat, a wall went down behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed non-committally.  Harry leaned forward, anticipating, but nothing was forthcoming. “Does that happen much?” she asked, trying to prompt a response out of Hagrid. “Nah. Never before – at least, never without bein’ caught.  Guess it makes sense that...  Ah, nevermind.  Safest place in the world for anything, Hogwarts.” he  finished off, not meeting their eyes. 

Harry decided it was safest to drop that topic, though it niggled in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to upset Hagrid. “It’s getting dark. We probably have to head back... I’m sorry I ruined our tea,” she apologised. Both Hagrid and Hermione shook their heads, and she smiled wryly, shooting Fang another nervous glance as she pried herself out of the chair. The great black mastiff whined, peering up at Harry with his pitiful droopy eyes. “We can try again some other time, now I know you’ve got this great mutt yeah? And maybe I’ll work up to petting him sometime. His ears look really soft and good.” she offered by way of goodbye, setting the newspaper back on the chair as Hermione pushed herself off it also.  It really was getting dark outside, sometime after six now, and Harry worried they’d be in trouble as she and Hermione set off across the grounds back to the castle, with Hagrid’s promises of a do-over leaving them feeling warm and safe even in the growing dark, hands held tight to ward against fears of monsters in the shadows on their way.

This warm feeling dissipated  as  the girls were confronted at the main doors of the castle by a stooping, grey-haired man leaning on a heavy staff, from the curving top of which hung a lantern. This had to be the caretaker, and seeing his walking staff certainly made sense of the peculiar sound of his gait they’d heard in the deserted hallway. Faced with him now, Harry received mostly an impression of malign glee. “Students, out at night!” he exclaimed, shifting his grip on the staff. “Can’t have that, Mrs Norris. It’s detention for you lot, and don’t you forget it!”

Worried now, Harry and Hermione were herded on inside to join the tail end of dinner. They weren’t up for eating a great deal in either case, with the tiring events of the day wearing at them and now the threat of detention hanging over their heads , setting both of them to worrying right until they both fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am way too proud of this. It saves me from writing a whole pointless duel scene to get them caught up late that doesn't even fit with Harry's character here. Aaaanyway. Moving weirdly efficiently along, let's grab the executive function and run with the fucker before it disappears again yeah?


	11. First Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has her first flying class, and Draco wastes no opportunity to taunt her. As you know, the flying class doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been trying to do this one for DAYS. Wasn't quite sure how to factor in my plan for further cutting down unnecessary stuff I didn't want to do, but I think I've set it up right.  
> SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER.  
> This chapter includes targeted homophobia and transphobia, ableism and ableist slurs, bullying and racist commentary. Specific note for use of slurs, including ableist and queerphobic slurs, and degrading racist language. Note also for significant injury - don't worry, Harry's alright!

Rather than it occurring straight away, Harry and Hermione received a note each about their detention at breakfast the next morning, informing them that it was being planned and that they would be informed further of the time and place next week. So with that thought in mind, both girls went about their study throughout the week quietly and with little further comment in class. Potions was as awful as ever, but luckily without further injuries that week.

Classes continued as their new usual, and Harry felt as if the week had been pulled out from under her feet by the time they reached Saturday. From her conversations with Morag and Padma, Harry’s excitement for the prospect of flying lessons and magical sports was growing, even through the ever-present fear of failure.

And speaking of fear of failure – even that began to ease. Harry and Hermione had a tendency to unintentionally fuel eachother’s perfectionist anxiety. As Harry slowly gained new friends, in particular Ron, Neville, Morag and Faye; slowly she learned to push out her comfort zone and gradually she started to develop if not a rapport with her fellow students, then at least a new confidence. A fragile one to be certain, but that is how everything begins if it is to grow.

Aside from Hermione, it was probably Neville that Harry was closest with. She empathised with the older boy’s shyness and the way he felt incompetent and out of step with the world, and their confidence grew together as Harry discovered Neville’s grasp of Herbology and alchemical science far outstripped her own. That was too easily overlooked given Neville’s social impairment, but that was something Harry shared – and she enjoyed watching the genuine confidence that grew in her friend as he realised there were things he could teach her, instead of feeling as if he was a burden on their study sessions.

Study aside, it was flying class – not really something you could study for – that held Harry’s attention today. She walked hand in hand with Neville having found the physical contact helped to settle his anxieties, while chattering animatedly to Hermione and Parvati about the possible class curriculum and the mechanics of flying manoeuvres she’d read about prior.

Flying class was held on a field designated for training, directly beside the castle itself and its’ outer reaches ringed by a stone wall. Further out was a mass of scaffolding, towers and heraldry that Harry’s new peers had informed her was the Quidditch stadium, and farther still was the looming mantle of the Forbidden Forest, today its’ canopy obscured by the last remnants of cloud that still clung to it even this late in the morning.

At the head of the field stood a lean, gray-haired woman of average height, dressed in plain black robes of an athletic cut Harry hadn’t seen on other magical folk. Before her were laid out rows of broomsticks, four rows of ten each. Some were straighter, while others had a distinct warp to them. All had bent twigs, and looked well in need of care. Harry joined her friends as they lined up into the assigned rows, managing to snag one of the straighter brooms – the asymmetry of the others niggled at her and her brain raced, composing hypothetical solutions for the mechanics of a spell to coax the warp from the aged fibers; at the peculiarly yellow-eyed teacher’s gesture and scowl they redistributed themselves out of their house ordering. Harry found herself between Padma and Hermione, with Neville directly across from her in the next row. She cast around anxiously for others she recognised, disoriented in the change of organisation. Her bespectacled gaze found Parvati further down the line from Neville and Faye further to her own right, with Morag and Emilia in the other line parallel to Harry’s. Also nearby were others she recognised – Sally-Anne Perks and Megan Cassidy, Hufflepuffs that Harry liked well enough after their initial awkwardness, and Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass, two Slytherins who Harry had noticed were by far friendlier in class than their housemates overall. Dabs of red in the sea of uniforms told Harry where the rest of her housemates were, even though she didn’t know them as well as her dorm-mates specifically, and she relaxed a little as she familiarised herself with their new structure in the hope it wasn’t liable to change again suddenly.

The gray-haired instructor clapped her hands, stilling the babble of chatter and stories of childhood flying mishaps. “Alright, class. Doesn’t matter how many of you have flown before or not, this class is to iron out any possible bad habits just as much as it’s to teach the newcomers. A point from Gryffindor, Finnigan, I didn’t ask you to pick up that broom – your enthusiasm is commendable, though I would prefer your attention.” she began, with a raised eyebrow at the errant boy who, red-faced, abruptly returned the broom to the ground.

“Now, we’ll be starting from the basics. I’m Madam Hooch. Treat my brooms well or you’ll be in detention polishing them. You should all be standing with your broom on the side of your wand hand. If you aren’t, please do so now – and make room for those who need to change sides, the lot of you.” There was some minor reshuffling in the lines, as left-handed wand users and those who’d found themselves simply lined up wrong straightened themselves out as the teacher ordered. “Now, stick that wand hand out over your broom and command it, ‘up’. They may not be wand-wood, but these brooms can still sense your hesitation, and they won’t budge if you’re not sincere. We’ll move on once you’re all confident at this stage.” Madam Hooch finished, demonstrating for the class with her own broom as she spoke.

Harry eyed the broom warily. Its’ varnish was faded and chipped in places, and more than a few tail twigs were out of place. Still, there were no splinters she could see. And there was nothing in particular to fear about asking a broom into her hand – idly Harry wondered if the same concept could apply to summoning a wand, it seemed similar in principle. She stuck her bony right hand out over the broomstick and scowled at it, scripting the word in her head. “Up!” she ordered it. Unsurprisingly, the broomstick remained grounded. A chorus of similar commands rang out unevenly throughout the four lines, and Harry contemplated her broomstick. Again, she ran the word over in her head, planning out even the tone and cadence in an attempt to evade her stutter. “Up!” she ordered it again, and this time the broom at least rolled over on the ground.

It took Harry the best part of five minutes to convince the broom into her hand, another five before she could do so every time she tried. She noted Hermione took a little longer, and some nervous students overcompensated and got hit in the face with the handle of their broom. Harry was envious of the students who got it down first time or quickly, among them Ron, Morag and the sneering blond boy, Draco Malfoy. Within around twenty minutes, the rest of the class had picked up the exercise well enough, Neville with Harry’s help as the two signed back and forth across the class lines. Neville’s round face was lined with anxiety even with help, and the shorter boy had a sheen of sweat visible under the late morning sun.

“Right, class. Now you’ve all got the hang of that, you’re going to mount your brooms. Some might have been taught side-saddle but I want you all seated astride. Push off from the ground firmly, keep your grip and your brooms steady. Rise a few feet – absolutely no more than ten – and then come back to the ground by leaning forward. On my whistle.” Madam Hooch instructed, her clipped lowland accent carrying across the still field.

The whistle blast echoed in Harry’s ears, but she didn’t get a chance to so much as mount her broom. Neville, made hasty in his worry, was the first astride his broom and he didn’t so much push off the ground as he did leap into the air. One loose arm flailing, the panicked boy gripped his broom with the other. His weight was too far back and his broom lurched backwards at an alarming rate. Abruptly it stopped, and Neville was thrown forward onto the broom’s handle, hugging it with both arms. Harry couldn’t see well enough at a distance to discern exactly what happened, but it looked like Neville took a blow from the broom’s handle to the forehead as he lurched forward, and slowly, as if time ran through glass, he slipped from the airborne broom and tumbled to the ground with a sickening crunch.

Harry was first to his side, Madam Hooch close behind. Words stuck in her throat and she cracked the knuckles of her right hand in succession at her side, returning to anxiously flapping. Neville lay at an awkward ankle, his thick dirty-blond hair in disarray and his face, what little Harry could see of it as he lay mostly on his stomach, contorted with pain. He curled around his right arm, and Harry felt ill as she noted that the top of it jutted out from his body at an angle that could only be described as fundamentally _wrong_ , forming an ungainly mass forward of where his shoulder should normally be. _Anterior dislocation_ , some factual part of Harry’s mind informed her. _Possible damage to elbow and/or wrist._

Madam Hooch swore softly, she must have come to a similar conclusion to Harry. “Class paused while I get this lad to the Hospital Wing. Nobody is to leave the ground, you hear?” she ordered. Neville stifled a shriek as she lifted him from the ground. Harry seized his good hand, squeezing it for comfort as Madam Hooch paused. She spelled against the pulse point in his wrist, two letters repeating. Ok. Ok. Ok. Neville’s eyes were screwed closed, but a hitch in his breathing and a weakly returned squeeze told Harry that he’d understood.

Numb and confused, Harry stumbled back to her place in the rows of brooms as Madam Hooch took her semi-conscious friend away. Hermione put her arm around Harry, squeezing the other girl into her side. As always, Harry relaxed under the pressure, her tapping hand against Hermione’s leg signalled when to let go.

As she calmed, Harry’s senses returned to her and her brows drew together as a pale figure in green-accented robes broke from the rest of the class, long-legged strides carrying them to where Neville had fallen. Harry couldn’t see what, but they retrieved something from the short-cropped grass beside the now-grounded broomstick and held it aloft. “It’s that thing of Longbottom’s!” the blond figure crowed, and now as he spoke Harry recognised him to be Malfoy. She scowled and, broom in hand – perhaps to beat him with, she wasn’t quite sure why – she stomped over until she stood before the sneering blond boy. Closer now, she recognised in his hand the clear orb, a single band of brass encircling it and a small nexus of red smoke swirling at its’ core. A Remembrall - Neville had received it in the mail at breakfast earlier in the week. “G-g-gi-ve it back, Ma-lfoy,” she snapped, her voice catching on the words.

The blond boy’s face lit in a mocking smile. “Duel me for it, Potter,” he jeered, dancing back out of her reach as she lunged for the enchanted globe. He laughed, holding it high above her head. “Nobody believes your story about your name being _Harriet_ , you know. Anyone can see what you’ve got under that skirt, _sissy,_ ” he taunted. Harry flushed with fury, the tips of her ears burning. The edges of her vision dimmed and glittered as they always did under strain. “I’m not dueling you, Malfoy, give it back.” she retorted, missing again as she snatched at it. Malfoy’s lip curled. “Figures, faggot. Let’s leave this where the retard can find it… maybe at the top of a tower? Or, no, I know, on top of the Quidditch hoops.” he sneered, turning his back to her as he mounted his broom.

The familiar taunt bit at Harry’s ears, but it was the slur he directed at Neville that had her pulse pounding in her ears. Harry mounted her broom, her grip white-knuckled on the handle, her feet spread in a wide stance on the ground as she studied Malfoy’s movements. It was as if she watched the scene from just outside her body and as if she was trapped inside as a passenger at once; Malfoy leapt from the ground and Harry shot off in pursuit of him. Her vision blurred and sparked and she narrowed her eyes, squinting through the glare on her lenses. The sunlight bounced from the globe in Malfoy’s hand and the blond boy laughed back over his shoulder at her – he’d not been lying in his boasts throughout the week, he _was_ a competent flier. “You’re not fooling anybody, faggot. Everyone knows what you were born. I can’t believe you – you, who survived a curse that rebounded on it’s maker – you grew up to be a filthy _tranny_ bitch.” he taunted as Harry matched his movements, the pair rising higher above the field. She shook her head mutely, too angry to speak, too focused to lift a hand from the broom. “And you could have made something here at Hogwarts, but no. You and your retard, and that monkey and the rest of your queer friends, you’re everything that’s wrong with this place. He had the right idea, to clean out the half-breeds like the lot of you.”

Half-breed. Retard. Monkey. Tranny. Faggot. The words dinned in Harry’s brain, her vision suffused with sparks as her hands shook on the broom’s handle. Somewhere along the way, Malfoy’s voice had taken on a tone so familiar to her, so derisive, it felt that even here, sixty feet above a highland castle, she was back with the Dursleys. The insults mirrored those her uncle favoured, the sheer derision echoed her aunt. Harry shook her head, the phrase _blinded by rage_ could not have been more accurate in the moment. “No.” she choked out, her jaw trembling along with the rest of her. Her vision seized on the brass-banded orb, still clutched in Malfoy’s long-fingered grip. She lunged, but up here Malfoy had no speed advantage over her and her movement was steady, the broom carrying her forward as she tucked in on herself. Acting only by instinct she shoulder-checked the taunting blond, sending the Remembrall tumbling from his now-flailing grasp. The loose hand caught in her thick hair as she dove past him, tearing a furious scream free of her lips. Draco couldn’t hold on long and Harry now had the advantage, her thin frame flat against the broom as she forced it into a steep dive, plummeting from the sky after the glinting orb. The ground barely registered in her awareness as she closed on it. Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Five feet. Three. One, the glass ball glinting just out of reach. It collided with her palm and she tucked it in against her chest, hauling the broom out of the dive with all her weight thrown backwards.

Malfoy landed some feet away, just below Harry now as she hovered atop her broomstick clutching her prize. She was gratified to see his chest heaving and hair askew, and for the first time in her life Harry felt the heady, vengeful thrill of _victory_ over a bully. But the moment didn’t last, as she drifted to the ground she tumbled from the broom and sank to her knees, hugging the ball. Malfoy’s longer legs ate up the distance between them, and he knelt before her, the vicious smile gone from his thin face. Now he seemed fearful, ashamed, and there was a wildness to him there hadn’t been previously. Bullies survived with their control, brought to them by fear. Beaten so publicly, that was threatened, and Harry didn’t miss the quiver in his lips as he knelt, bringing himself to eye level with her. “I meant it, freak. You’ll duel me, or-” he hissed, cut off abruptly as another figure entered Harry’s limited field of view. He was pushed aside by an impatient green-robed figure – Professor McGonagall, Harry noted mutely as she raised her head to see better. Hurriedly she got to her feet and lowered her gaze again, stepping back with the broom now in one hand and the Remembrall in the other.

“Never, in all my time at Hogwarts – You, lass! You count yourself bloody lucky I don’t have you out here on the next train, cat and all!” the professor snapped, her stern voice lapsing into what must be her native Highland brogue in her high temper. Harry quailed under what she could only interpret as fury, and Professor McGonagall shook her head. “Ten points from Slytherin, Malfoy, you and I both know why. I’ll be speaking to Severus about this. And you, Potter, you come with me.” she ordered, the temper seeping from her voice. Harry was swept along with the professor as she strode from the field, dropping the broom somewhere along the way. She turned back to the rest of the class a moment, and her heart sank as she read the challenge in Malfoy’s expression. “ _Right here. Midnight. Or else.”_ he mouthed, her blood turning icy at the bitter resentment in the rival boy’s pale blue eyes.

As ever, Harry barely registered their surroundings as she trailed along in Professor McGonagall’s wake into the castle. Even the architecture, capricious as it was, bowed to the stern professor’s manner and soon Harry found herself waiting to one side before a door Harry recognised as that which led to the Charms Classroom. “Excuse me, Ingolfúr, may I borrow Wood for a moment?” Professor McGonagall called out, leaning in through the door. Harry fumbled for the name, then realised she had to be speaking to Professor Flitwick. Was Wood the name of a cane that the professor wished to borrow? It seemed out of character for the woman who had found Harry accomodation with the Grangers, but Harry could never be surprised by the vicious twists of human beings by this point.

Wood, as it turned out, was a broad-shouldered youth of about fifteen by Harry’s best guess, his brown hair cropped short and his face freckled and ruddy. He had a good-humoured but serious look about him, and he nodded politely to the professor as she closed the classroom door behind them.

Professor McGonagall beckoned them both after her as she strode off down the hallway, coming to another classroom door that stood ajar. Both Harry and the boy McGonagall had referred to as Wood entered the classroom behind the professor, empty save for themselves and Peeves, who was drawing a marvellous spiralling work across the blackboard – a work that, Harry noted with a stifled giggle, was made up entirely of stylised genitalia.

“Ach, get _out_ ye menace,” Professor McGonagall muttered tiredly, shooing the poltergeist from the room with a wordless stream of lime-green light from her wand. The door slammed closed behind him, and McGonagall turned to face the two students.

“Wood, I’ve found you a Seeker.” she announced, a broad grin spreading across her usually serious face as she regarded them both. Wood’s face, previously a mask of bewilderment, changed to delight. “Are you serious, professor?” he asked, rubbing his palms together excitedly. Harry was still confused – Quidditch? Her? - and set about flapping her left hand against her hip, hoping they would enlighten her.  
“That was your first time on a broom, ay lass?” the professor inquired as if already knowing the answer. Harry nodded hurriedly, still having not quite lost the dizzying rush of her dive.  
“Caught that thing -” here McGonagall gestured to the swirling reddish orb still clutched in Harry’s spare hand – “after a fifty-foot dive, not a scratch on her. Fantastic shoulder-check to seize it too, I’ve not seen anything like it. Even Charlie Weasley couldn’t’ve pulled that off green.”

By now both were alive with energy, and Harry felt their expectations like a heavy mantle about her shoulders. She hadn’t really thought of the height, and was sick at the idea of it now even as the rush of it still burned at her nerve endings. “Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” Harry was asked, and she blinked owlishly at the fifth-year boy. She shook her head no. “But I-I’ve read a lot abou-t-t it,” she offered, the edges of her mouth quirking upwards hopefully. Quidditch. Real Hogwarts Quidditch like they’d been talking about, her.

Wood studied her now, nodding enthusiastically. “She’s just the build for a Seeker too. A little undermuscled, but that’ll come with training... We’ll need to get her a broom, Prof, maybe an older model Nimbus or the new Cleansweep.” he suggested.

Professor McGonagall was already nodding. “Yes, yes. I’ll speak to Professor Dumbledore about it, and there’s already a loophole in the school ruling I can think of if he says no... the Morrìgan only knows we need it, flattened by Slytherin in that last match, Severus lorded it over us for _weeks...”_ she trailed off, muttering away to herself. Wood shrugged, and turned to Harry. “You’ll use a spare until we can get you a decent broom. Training Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings, just follow the other Gryffindors on down. And call me Oliver.” he instructed, offering a hand for Harry to shake. She shook her head, but offered him a genuine grin, albeit one a little crooked with nerves. “I-I’ll see you tomorrow then.” she agreed and, still a little giddy with it all, she took her leave as McGonagall nodded permission and skipped off to tell her friends about the bewildering developments of the morning.


	12. And Wouldn't You Love to Love Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry discusses her Quidditch placement with her friends in Gryffindor Tower, and admits to them what Malfoy had taunted her for. She settles into life at Hogwarts, feeling the name fits her less and less and aware that her fragile half-lie about mistaken identity at birth is running out of time, and with the help of Hermione and other friends she finds her own name.  
> Her broomstick arrives and she has her first Quidditch practice as a real valuable member of the team, but this is dampened by the news she has to meet with Professor Dumbledore afterwards. Understandably she has some trepidation about this, but could not have imagined how bad it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hoo wee, it's taken me DAYS. Also I didn't sleep last night and I have evil ideas way into Goblet of Fire including major plot divergence. That's really lined up to start at the end of the Philosopher's Stone leading into Chamber of Secrets, but I need to flesh out the rest of this book first.  
> And you might have guessed from the summary, this is another rough one. I swear she gets a break! Soon, even! She just has to sort of, unmask all the bad she's dealing with before she can start to heal any of it.  
> Anyway, enjoy some Dumbledore bashing, he just doesn't feel *right* to me in this context. But with every antagonist I present, they link to a found family member. I swear I'm setting up for cuddly fluffy good things. I just have to get there.  
> From here on out our Harry isn't Harry anymore, but I'd like to let you find out who she is without me spoiling it in prior notes.  
> Content warning for: Discussion of bullying and threats of outing, homophobic slurs, deadnaming (semi-intentional to actively intentional), misgendering (intentional), bullying, panic attack, meltdown, oh wow how do I describe dumbledore... disregarding testimony of abuse, blood purism, blood family supremacy, denial of abuse, intent to return her to abusive home, transphobia, homophobia, manipulation and probably a little gaslighting. Then after that there's some vulnerability, safety risk and panic due to neurological sensory disorder -building that as a thing, know how to write it not word it.

“You’re _joking._ ” 

H arry hadn’t told her friends at dinner – the hall was too crowded for her to be able to form any sort of coherent thought train. So they were all settled around on couches and beanbags  in a corner of Gryffindor Tower studying when Harry relented and shared her news with her friends. Neville had returned by now from the Hospital Wing, and he  shared a couch beside Harry along with Hermione,  his Remembrall safely returned . 

T he comment was Ron’s,  echoed by a similar comment from Faye.  Their minor commotion attracted some other Gryffindors Harry didn’t recognise, bringing with them a flurry of congratulations from most, from others some consternation as to whether a first year could really hold up as Seeker.  Percy congratulated her in his rather pompous manner, ‘on behalf of Gryffindor’ to a chorus of groans, and Harry was introduced to the rest of the team by  a pair of redheaded twins  who introduced themselves as Fred and George, Ron’s older brothers.  A Quidditch team was made up of seven players – one seeker, Harry; one Keeper, Oliver Wood; two Beaters – the twins; and three Chasers – Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell, three older girls of whom Harry was simultaneously terrified and admiring.  The seven of them, with a handful of others Harry was informed filled in from time to time as spares, huddled around and talked strategy and skills until her head spun.

Eventually, with some intervention from the prefects, the celebratory throng dispersed and Harry returned to her study with Ron, Neville and her dorm-mates in peace.  The common room quieted slowly until the only sounds were  the scratching of quills and the occasional low mutter. Harry was absorbed in her History of Magic homework, the first years tended to collaborate on the dreadfully dull subject in an effort to get something out of it. This term they were covering the Statute of Secrecy and the events that precluded it, and ordinarily Harry would have been fascinated with a discussion of the insular nature of magical society and the ways in which it was hobbled developmentally by its’ own laws, but Professor Binns had no tolerance for deviating from the lesson plan which always covered only the events of the past, with little to how they shaped modern events and society. He had made it clear that his was a history class, not a sociology one, and while some simply saw it as something to slog through; Harry, Hermione and their more studious friends were frustrated by the style of teaching, feeling that it hindered creative and analytical thought, as well as the clear bias in the subjects and how they were handled. 

“Harry, what did Malfoy have to say?” someone asked, startling Harry from her focus as she helped Neville break down a testimony given to the British magical government in favour for the need for the statute at the time of its’ original formation. 

The speaker was Parvati, and Harry blinked fuzzily for a moment as she processed what had been said. “Um he, he knows.” she mumbled, eyes downcast. She’d had no particular discussion with Ron or Neville about  her trans identity, and Ron was confused until Faye explained briefly to him, while Neville just nodded – not vacantly, she got the feeling her timid, scholarly friend didn’t need to be told. Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and Parvati gestured for Harry to go on. “H-he knows and um, he’s... he was... you know, Malfoy, y-you know what he’s like  _please_ don’t make me say it, he know’s that I-I’m – and he’s upset that I-I showed him up and he’s going to tell people unless I duel him t-t-toni-ght and I’m scared.” she burst out, her glasses fogging a little as her face heated with shame. 

A cracking of knuckles broke the silence, and Harry caught a vicious glance shared between Faye and Ron. Hermione pulled her into a sideways hug while Neville squeezed her hand, spelling against her wrist as she’d done for him. “You don’t know any proper spells yet, you can’t go,” Hermione reasoned quietly. This was met with a nod from Parvati and Neville squeezed Harry’s hand again, emphatically; while Ron and Faye disagreed. “We’ll come as seconds. Malfoy deserves  h is pointy Prod ass kicked.” Faye contributed with a scowl,  to Ron’s emphatic agreement. Harry shook her head, disjointed images of the few times she’d attempted to stand up to the Dursleys blinking against her closed eyelids. “N-no I c-can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m scared,” she mumbled, hugging her knees to her chest and curling up against Hermione’s side. Parvati and Hermione shared a look, and Harry nodded assent for them to help her up to bed. “I’ll be up later,” Faye replied at their questioning, remaining behind with Ron and an uncharacteristically furious Neville. 

Harry lay awake in the dark long after her roommates’ quiet snores filled the still air, eyes tightly closed and nails biting into clenched palms as sleep eluded her. She heard every thunderous chime of the Hogwarts clock tower as the hours blurred together – eight, ten, eleven. Midnight. No lightning struck, the world’s shape didn’t change. But Harry never noticed Faye come back to bed that night as she lay awake until well past two.

As it turned out, the two boys and Faye had slipped out of Gryffindor tower and gone to meet Malfoy. The lot of them were now under threat of detention,  the loss of a hundred house points tempered only with the knowledge that Malfoy and his two hulking cronies had also lost fifty points apiece. They were all sternly informed that the teachers had marked their detentions, and the lot of them would serve a joint detention to be planned for some time in the Christmas holidays – none of them were to be permitted a home visit as a result. Harry was strangely relieved that some of her other friends served under the same onerous sentence as she and Hermione did, at least whatever awaited them would be shared. 

S o on another week passed and Harry settled into a rhythm at Hogwarts as they began their regular timetable. They were introduced to Astronomy class which was held from 8-9pm Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; and Care of Magical Creatures which was taught by a jovial Scotsman by the name of Professor Kettleburn, who possessed a remarkably fewer number of bodily appendages than most, having only one hand and leg, and a missing eye. Harry supposed his profession did lend itself to unusual injuries, and though it was less academic than her usual classes, Harry enjoyed the time out near the forest and she resolved to ask Hagrid more about the creatures they discussed in class when she saw him next, having seen books on the subject taking up precious space in his cabin. 

Outside of academia, Harry found a new passion in Quidditch. Flying was as thrilling as it had been the first time, and even on a borrowed broom she held her own on the Quidditch pitch. Aside from Seeking, her quick reflexes and caution served her well against the Bludgers and Harry thrived on the camaraderie the team brought – despite Draco Malfoy’s threats, it seemed rumours about Harry hadn’t changed from when she was first Sorted, and the team made absolutely no issue of Harry or her gender.

To Harry, though, the issue still weighed on her. The name  _Harry_ was inherently tied to the Boy Who Lived, and ten years of abuse by the Dursleys. And it prodded at the back of her mind insistently, until she spilled her anxieties to her friends while they studied. Some – Parvati, Emilia, Daphne, Neville and Megan Cassidy –  empathised , but they had little  idea on how to help. Others – Ron, Tracey,  Padma and Morag – didn’t entirely understand  the pain a name could cause, having no frame of reference for the issue and so while they sympathised they were even less help than the former. It was Hermione, Faye and Sally-Anne who had the simple solution the others missed – if Harry didn’t feel right, why not look for something that did? And so it was that the four girls along with Neville found themselves in the library, distracted from their extracurricular study of early magical culture in the British Isles by  a hunt for Harry’s new name. 

Their search didn’t take them far from their extracurricular work, as Harry found herself fascinated by the names and culture of what they were already studying. Her mother Lily had been Welsh,  and Harry was drawn to the names of the characters  and legends of that part of her heritage . One reoccurred over and over, in local legend and historical canon  of the magical community. And on seeing it, she knew immediately it was hers. 

_Rhiannon._

T his knowledge brought with it the first break into the rhythm she had found at Hogwarts,  as on the Sunday morning of her third week at Hogwarts, Rhiannon reintroduced herself to her friends  as her new-chosen name – with the  condition that they address her as such only in private for her safety, at least until she had found a stronger footing at Hogwarts.  A couple of her friends had concerns for Harry’s safety when she eventually came out, several others – Hermione, Neville,  Sally-Anne and Faye –  expressed discomfort at the idea of having to call Rhiannon something they knew caused her pain.  Rhiannon – now Rhi for short – appreciated their concern on that front, but assured them that she would bear it – that it was safer to.

T he hushed deliberations of the group were interrupted by the arrival of the post towards the end of breakfast. Ordinarily this was of little interest to  Rhiannon, having no-one to write home to,  but this morning her attention was caught by a pair of owls, large and freckled brown with ear tufts and yellow eyes, as between them they carried a long parcel wrapped in brown paper. Further to Rhi’s surprise, this was deposited on the table before her, narrowly missing upsetting a goblet. 

Attached to the parcel with twine was a small card, bearing Rhiannon’s old name and a short note. She grimaced, but was immediately glad that she had checked it first – given that it instructed her not to open the parcel at the table  and that it contained – Rhiannon could barely believe her eyes – a broomstick.  An entire broomstick.  For  _her._ She was almost too floored by the gift – for it was a gift, the card said as much – to be excited by it. 

But only almost.  Rhi squealed, the sound a little muffled as she hid her beaming face in the itchy fabric of her school jersey, knocking  her own glasses off as she flapped excitedly, tripping over the bench and crashing to her hands and knees as she got up to retrieve them. Her broomstick, still wrapped, rolled across the aisle between the tables and stopped under the lifted toe of someone’s polished shoe. Rhiannon looked up and her heart sank as she recognised the characteristic sneer of the blond boy who’d made himself out to be her rival since day one. 

“That’s a broomstick, Faggy Potter – don’t get all freak about it, now.” he drawled, a vicious sort of glee brightening his usually sullen tone, as if somehow Rhiannon’s good fortune was a windfall to him. “First year’s aren’t allowed broomsticks – not that you’d know, raised like a Mudblood and all.” At those words, there was a scuffling among the tables and in her periphery Rhi saw Angelina, Katie and Alicia holding back a livid Fred and George. Rhi didn’t quite understand the insult’s magical context, all she could hear in the back of her brain were the vindictive children at her primary school, asking if her blood was as dirty as her skin, if she ever bathed, were her parents filthy too. In the face of that, the insult Draco led with slipped to the back of her mind, and she found her wand clutched in a shaking, pale-knuckled hand without knowing she had even drawn it, the murmuring of the crowded room fading to a muted hush and a black curtain flickering again at the edges of her vision.  
“That’s enough, Malfoy. Five points from Slytherin, and another ten for that word in particular.” a familiarly stern voice interjected, coloured by the warm accent that was becoming comforting to Rhiannon as so often it signalled her rescue and cutting through the haze of flashback and fury. “Fa- Potter’s got a broomstick, Professor. First’s not allowed those,” Draco Malfoy repeated, a sickly yellow-green tone of jealousy creeping into his insistent statement at the professor’s nonchalance. “Yes, yes, she’s the new Gryffindor seeker, special provision and all. Thought it might be good for team-building and camaraderie – something you might do well to consider as well, young man. Now be off before I make it a round twenty points taken.” Professor McGonagall snapped, taking the broomstick from Draco and turning to Rhiannon, her face creased with concern. Harry shook her head mutely, a dull thrum of resentment beating deep in her chest at how the snide bully had managed to ruin even the experience of the best gift of her life, combined with a feverish mortification at having been so open in her joy – she let her new friends see what a _freak_ she really was. 

O nce again, it was Professor McGonagall’s patient voice that roused her from the bitter spiral she had begun to flounder in. “Wood, take Potter out for a spin on that, may as well run an early practice. Here’s a note if anyone’s using the field.” she instructed, Rhiannon vaguely noticed that she was surrounded by a mixture of her own year-level friends and the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Professor McGonagall stooped a little, and Rhi prided herself that she didn’t flinch as the tall woman placed a hand gently on her shoulder. McGonagall nodded silently and squeezed Rhiannon’s shoulder, patting it briefly as she released her. If nothing else, the silent comfort and support was appreciated, and Rhiannon left the hall still fuming, but at least with the knowledge she had her teacher’s support. 

Out on the Quidditch Pitch, Rhiannon could think again. Something about the  enclosure of the stands helped focus her mind, and the sensation of the light autumn breeze as it teased at her hair was a calming one.  She sat cross-legged on the slightly damp ground, displeased with the sensation but seeing no other way to set about unwrapping her broomstick, and quietly busied herself with the knotted string and infuriatingly stealthy packaging tape edges, slowly revealing the warm polished teak handle of her very own broomstick.

Even Rhiannon, as a relative novice, could immediately feel the difference. The connection in her hand wasn’t as strong as she had felt when trying wands, but there was a degree of similarity in the way it connected to her magic, more an instrument than a vehicle. As ever, part of Rhi’s mind nattered away analysing the structure and principles of the magic  involved even as she admired the broom on a more surface leve l, running curious fingertips over the label plated on the end of the handle –  _Nimbus 2000_ . 

A wkwardly she stood, wiping her muddied palms on her robes and then twisting them anxiously on the broom’s grip as she made her way over the rest of the team, fizzing with anticipation. Sometime in her studious unravelling of its’ wrappings, Rhiannon had missed the arrival of a tousle-haired runner and she tilted her head curiously as they retreated from the field, Rhi having also missed whatever they had come to say. 

“Alright, Potter, let’s get you up in the air on that thing, yeah?” Oliver said with a grin, rubbing his palms together. “A Nimbus, good Seeker’s broom – they’ve improved in their recent models. Mount up, everyone.” he mused, then concluded with a good-natured order, clapping his hands sharply to conclude any chatter among the rest of the team. 

Unlike usual games, Quidditch practices  occasionally included the seven other players who acted as reserves, older students without the time to spare for full time commitments to Quidditch,  and for training  purposes today it seemed by the layout that Wood planned to have them run a friendly game after they’d played through their usual drills. It took a little while for Rhiannon to adjust to the new broom, having grown used to the sluggishness of the practice ones, and she grew frustrated several times at the difficulty of the adjustment as compared to simply learning to fly. But eventually adjust she did, and at times the Nimbus felt almost sentient to her new magic sense, responding before Rhiannon had fully formed  a plan of action and while at first this was disorienting, Rhi found it cut through a lot of her brain-clutter and indecision as they shifted into playing a practice game, the intuition of the broom didn’t require her to plan her movements in the way she’d been dreading and for the first time Rhiannon didn’t just hold her own with the team, she shone. 

It was well into mid-day by the time Oliver called an end to the practice, and the team congregated at the edge of the field,  all sharing matching grins when Rhiannon joined them, her own grin a little crooked in her shyness. “Slytherin won’t know what hit them,” one of the Weasley twins said, ruffling Rhiannon’s hair. It was another private testament to her healing that Rhi took pride in, as she ducked away laughing and swatting playfully at the offending Weasley with her broomstick, that the action caused her only a moment’s startlement and not the blood-freezing panic of mere weeks past. 

“Sorry to chase you away, Potter, but the runner asked me to send you up to the Headmaster after practice so I figured we’d best wrap it up.” Oliver apologised. Another of Rhi’s teammates, a dark-haired second-year girl named Katie Bell held out a hand to Rhiannon, beckoning. “I’ll take your broomstick and pads back to the dorms if you like,” she offered. Gratefully Rhiannon passed her equipment over, offering some muttered thanks as she scurried off back towards the castle. 

T he trek up to the third floor was, as ever, exhausting; but Rhiannon made her way there without so much as a switching stair case only to realise she had no idea how to get in. Defeated for the moment, she leaned against the tarnished bronze statue of a gryphon to think,  and was promptly sent sprawling as the statue in question shivered and began to turn on its’ plinth, the alcove shifting into the wall to reveal a short staircase up. “Come in, Harry,” an old man’s thin voice sounded from somewhere inside, out of Rhiannon’s field of view. 

Rhi stood and dusted herself off, taking a moment to straighten both her clothes and her nerves before she faced Professor Dumbledore. As with any authority figure she thought of him with a degree of wariness, but there was the added complication of his role in the decade of abuse she had faced at the hands of her relatives – abuse, according to Professor McGonagall, he had not been overly concerned with. Rhiannon pushed these thoughts down until they simmered like a bank of sullen violet embers in her chest, and with her hands clenched inside her slightly overlong jumper, she took the few stairs and crossed an internal sort of foyer to reach the desk where the wizard in question had addressed her from. 

A chair was pushed out from the chair by some unseen spell, it bumped against Rhiannon’s knees gently. “Sit, Harry,” the grey-bearded professor remarked. He was clearly aiming for a kindly tone, but it came off more as patronising, an impression certainly not helped by the uncomfortable use of her old name – not that he could know of her new one, she reminded herself, determined to be charitable  until the professor proved himself undeserving. 

“This is the end of your third week at Hogwarts, Harry. I have been patient and allowed this to continue far too long, but it is simply unacceptable. Of course, given your circumstances, you cannot know of the full importance you hold to the wizarding world, my dear boy, but there are ways in which you must conduct yourself. This... _mockery_ of yourself and your station cannot carry on, and these tales that have reached me of your aunt and uncle – your mother would be ashamed, truly ashamed, to hear such rumours spoken of her own sister, and by her son no less.” Dumbledore continued, a beatific smile upon his creased features. Those embers of resentment in Rhiannon’s chest flared, until it felt as if her very bones creaked under pressure of the fire she held back. Never had she wished more to punch an octogenarian. 

“I- No-” She stammered, the words sticking in her throat, held back by the choking rage that suffused her. The tips of her ears reddened, and tears prickled in her eyes. Condescension, hatred, she was used to. But never from someone who was so convinced he was doing her a kindness. Professor Albus Dumbledore paid her furious stutter no mind. “I’ve half a mind to send you back to your guardians until next year, young man. I will not tolerate any expectations of special treatment or inflated importance.”

“ _They nearly killed me.”_ Rhiannon choked out, as the traitorous tears began to fall. “Ask H-Hagrid. Or P-Pro-Professor M-McGonagall. Ask Hermione’s parents-” she carried on, her words flooding together in a sickening combination of fear and rage – and, most bitterly, a trace of self doubt, as again the grey-bearded man held up his hand for silence. Something twisted Rhiannon’s vocal cords, she was unsure if it was her own speech impairment or some silent spell from the headmaster. 

“Voldemort nearly killed you, Harry Potter, a fact Miss Granger’s parents as... _non-magical_ citizens cannot fully appreciate the scope of. And do not speak to me of Hagrid, the man would try to save a dragon even as it burned his home. The only reason Lord Voldemort’s supporters haven’t found you yet, my boy, is that the same protection that saved you that night, lives in your very blood. Your _blood_ , Harry boy – the very core of your being. Without the reinforcement of that protection, you were vulnerable to the retaliation of the Dark Lord’s followers.” he continued, as if explaining to a small child. “Certainly, they may have struck you – any parent does, you know. It’s simply a part of growing up – you’re in no danger with your family. And for your own safety, you will return to them at the end of the year. I would insist that you return during holiday time, but for your dear aunt’s advice that school would do you good.” 

The telltale dusk curtain glimmered at the edges of Rhiannon’s vision and it was slowly swallowed by stars, leaving her blinking in the dark and too furious to speak. 

_ Harry, boy, your dear aunt, my, my –  _ Over and over, snatches of Dumbledore’s speech repeated in her mind even as her real hearing faded into the numb haze it always did under stress. Rhiannon moved her –  _ his, Harry’s, the boy’s _ her brain insisted viciously, nudged on by a voice so like that of the man before her – hands on the arms of the narrow chair she had been allocated, grasping them firmly to ground herself in reality. She was Rhiannon Hestia Potter. She was sitting in a chair on the third floor of Hogwarts Castle. The buttons of her shirt were undone beneath her jacket. 

But unlike usual, this grounding didn’t lift the stubborn curtain over her vision. Her ears burned, her mouth felt too dry, all she could hear was the  relentless repetition in her head and the erratic tattoo of her own heartbeat. She couldn’t stay. Dumbledore couldn’t know, he couldn’t, he’d send her back, he’d send her away – she had to leave. So Rhiannon rose unsteadily from the chair and shoved it aside, one foot knocking against Professor Dumbledore’s desk served as a guide as she scrambled for the shape of the rest of the room in her tattered memory. Blue carpet, bay window – foyer, the foyer. Rhiannon turned away, feeling as subtly as she could with each footstep, her hands for once still at her sides as she extended them as much as she could without giving herself away. 

Rhiannon had forgotten the single stair that separated Dumbledore’s office from its’ foyer, and she stumbled to her knees at the unexpected drop. Her forehead hit her upright knee, hard, and she took a moment to breathe. Didn’t matter. Had to get out. Now on level ground again, she stumbled in what she hoped was the direction of the door. Her angle was slightly off and she knocked against the doorjamb, freezing for a moment, raising her hands desperately to the doorway, to claw at it if she had in fact been shut in – no, no, it was empty air, she could get out and the sudden claustrophobia receded as quickly as it had come on. 

Rhiannon sagged against the wall outside, feeling the vibration in the rough stone wall as the guardian statue rotated to its’ original position barring what was now in Rhi’s mind a source of terror second only to the Dursleys’ front door. Numbly she crawled into the alcove behind the statue, clinging to its’ legs as she sobbed helplessly into the uncaring bronze. 

Rhiannon could not have told anyone how long she spent curled in that alcove, tears drying in the front of her hair. Her glasses were long-lost, either somewhere in the alcove or in the office, and even the lack of the familiar pressure had Rhi feeling adrift and tattered, hugging her knees to herself as she bit one wrist, hoping the pain would shock her vision back, her hearing,  some  _sense_ – nothing. Nothing, until a gentle hand was on her shoulder, even that contact had Rhiannon curling in on herself, a dull copper taste in her mouth as she bit down on her wrist again, helplessly frightened by the contextless touch. Someone crawled into the alcove behind Rhiannon, and she threw out a hand desperately to stop whoever it was as they took her into their arms, her own not restrained as whoever the person was rocked her gently, a low vibration in their chest told Rhiannon that they spoke or hummed or  _something_ , she shook her head and buried it in the unidentifiable person’s bony, wool-clad shoulder, tears soaking the fabric until some sort of awareness returned.

It was Rhiannon’s hearing that returned soonest, at first painful high frequencies that had her choking on sobs and struggling to cover her ears, then slowly the rest. With hearing she could identify her rescuer now as Professor McGonagall, but she was too exhausted to feel embarrassed for the meltdown, only bone-deep relief that someone was there, that the kind Scottish professor had heard, that she’d  _stayed_ instead of, any of the things that had happened during such times in the past. Rhiannon’s vision was still mostly black, but there were sparkling gaps now in the previously impenetrable field,  she could just barely make out the red of the professor’s tartan scarf that her face was currently buried in. 

While able to recognise Professor McGonagall, she couldn’t yet discern words and she shook her head numbly at the featureless jumble that was all she understood of the woman’s voice. A bitter smell like electrical burning, Rhiannon wrinkled her nose – a smell she would later come to associate with direct magics, as the professor summoned help. 

It would be some time before the Rhiannon could speak, could think clearly, and her eyelids fluttered dazedly. Her thin body sagged in the professor’s wiry embrace, and blissfully the Girl Who Lived was afforded the peace of unconsciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been WEIRD calling her Harry for eleven chapters. I was gonna put this later but I was just, over it. Our girl's Rhiannon. And I have mushy mushy things planned for that name. Anyway - yup. This one hurts. But I promise I'm setting it up for GOOD safe adult interaction and found family. Anyway, I haven't slept so I'm going to bed now, enjoy or cry or both, don't yell at me for bullying my characters I swear it stops eventually. Good night at 11am.


	13. A Friendly Game of Quidditch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon is comforted by Professor McGonagall following her panic attack and taken to the hospital wing. Weeks later, she plays her first not-so friendly Quidditch game hindered by a malicious commentator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a chapter outline. I knew exactly where this was going. And it still turned into like 8k words what the fuck. So I chopped it in half and you get this bit and I'm almost done with the other bit. This is the nice bit, followed by the sucky bit, but the next chapter which again is 95% done, is pretty much all nice bit. Rhiannon deserves GOOD people in her life and the reason I am so clear about who isn't those people is that I don't want there to be any mistaking who *is*. Anyway, it's like 3:35am, I have three separate earworms in my brain and I'm still going. Enfuckingjoy. And yes, Rhi's name means something specific to Minerva. 
> 
> CW: Panic attack, revelation of disability, transphobia, transmisogyny, outing

Rhiannon came to perhaps an hour later, not that she would know – while her vision had returned for the most part, everything was too sharp now and too bright. Her right wrist was bandaged, and she groaned and clutched her ears, drawing her knees up to her chest as slowly she figured out where she was.

The room was bare, save for a single bed and a few chairs – all currently occupied. The room itself was round, with a large window opening out to the sky. Neither the bed nor window was curtained, but Rhiannon recognised the stiff bed-linens and coarse undyed flannel covering she lay on as belonging to the Hospital Wing regardless – indicating she was probably in a side room. She’d not been tucked into bed, instead curled against a stack of pillows under a heavy blanket – by the feel, one weighted evenly for the purpose. Slowly she rolled over and, squinting against the oppressively bright afternoon sunlight, sat up and huddled back against the wall, now hugging the blanket to her chest.

Aside from Professor McGonagall, the other two chairs were occupied by Hermione and Neville, all three wearing concerned expressions. They clearly hoped for Rhiannon to explain herself, and she haltingly shook her head, looking pleadingly at Hermione for help. The other girl hurriedly retrieved the overstuffed backpack from under her chair and rummaged in it, drawing out a battered notepad and green ballpoint pen and passing it to Rhiannon, who smiled shakily, looking up at McGonagall for a prompt.

“Harry-” at this Rhiannon winced, prompting Neville, who came and sat beside her on the bed for some measure of comfort. Gratefully she leaned into the solid boy’s shoulder, signing quietly to Hermione who was clearly too anxious for physical contact, one hand flapping arrhythmically in her lap even as the other was occupied with pressing into the pressure points of the wrist of that hand. Rhiannon smiled wearily at her friend, miming a little ‘grabby hand’ gesture – their private signal for comfort without physical contact, before returning her attention to the professor.

“Potter, lass. I’m not sure I understand everything, but what is clear to me is that your meeting with Professor Dumbledore went poorly. You don’t need to tell me the specifics right now, it seems easiest to keep it concise so you can write less. If you are comfortable, please fill me in on what happened – and please don’t be worried that I will be angry, I will not, your distress is evident to me and your safety and wellbeing are what matter most in this situation.” Professor McGonagall explained kindly, scooting her chair closer to the bed so that she could reassure Rhiannon more physically, as the thin girl bit her lip and wrung her hands in her lap and twisted the pen in her grip.

Uncomfortably, Rhiannon nodded, and opened the hard-backed notepad, hunching over under Neville’s protective arm as she considered how to explain. She started several times and scribbled it out each time, a line growing between her frustrated brows. Filling a page with failed scrawl, she tore it out and crumpled it up, then hurled it across the room. The paper bounced off the wall and skittered across the floor pathetically, she growled at it and opened her mouth to speak. Nope. Still nothing. With another frustrated grumble she returned to the notepad and the room was almost silent, uncomfortably so, the only sound being the uneven scratching of the ballpoint pen.

With many errors and further crumpled missiles, Rhiannon managed to pen a haphazard account of her brief meeting with Dumbledore in thin detail. She didn’t want to relive the horrible things he’d said so _callously_ , but at the same time a none-too-small part of her mind wasn’t convinced that he was entirely wrong. Maybe she was too sensitive. Maybe she did need to be with the Dursleys for her own protection. Maybe she needed to try harder to be normal.

Rhi felt ill and empty, there was nothing productive to be found in that thought train. She shook her head, striking her temple a few times to clear it until Professor McGonagall caught her wrist in a firm grip. “No, lass. None of that.” she murmured, holding the wrist now in both of her lined hands. Rhiannon wilted, ashamed, and bit her lip. Before she could lose her nerve, she tore off the written page and handed it to the older woman hurriedly, then retreating to hug her arms around her torso as she rocked back and forth quietly, one hand moving in a fluttering rhythm against her side.

As she read, Professor McGonagall’s face grew darker. Rhiannon swore she could smell burning wool, and the professor’s usually stern expression became positively murderous. Wordlessly, she passed the letter to Hermione with Rhiannon’s gestured permission. “That’s not happening. None of that is happening.” the professor stated, her voice shaking with fury. “No wonder you couldn’t speak... the old bastard, to come out the blue like that. How _dare_ he...” she trailed off into incomprehensible muttering, twisting her wand in her grip.

“If Professor Dumbledore summons you again, you come to me, even if I am teaching. From this alone, there’s not much to be done. But rest assured, if he attempts to send you back, I will challenge him legally if need be. You are my student, and you are safe in Gryffindor tower. Oh the insufferable old-” here, she devolved into muttered swearing again. Hermione abruptly stood and left the room, leaving the note on her chair. She slammed the door behind her, and Rhiannon heard a scream from outside – too much anger to stay inside.

“Neville, dear, please go and take care of Miss Granger. I will return your friend here to Gryffindor tower.” Professor McGonagall asked, patting the blond boy’s pale hand gently. Neville complied awkwardly, leaving them alone in the small room. “Harry, lass, I wanted to talk without your friends here. It’s about earlier, in a more practical sense. Madam Pomfrey assessed you to some degree, but I need to confirm – you couldn’t see me, could you. Or hear me, at first. And your knees and hands are grazed.”

Numbly, Rhiannon shook her head. She hadn’t noticed the grazes. One word on the page – no. Sadly, Professor McGonagall nodded, taking Rhiannon’s free hand in both of hers. “Madam Pomfrey suspected that was the case. Her assessment indicated accumulated traumatic injury to your brain, likely the cause of your brief period of deafblindness. Hopefully such episodes will remain intermittent, but until we know more – I must ask that you ensure you don’t wander alone. It will take a few days, but Poppy is procuring a cane for your use. It should fold into your bag, but just as a precautionary measure so that you have some means of navigation if such an episode occurs again. You’ll be shown how to use it but Harry, lass, this might well put the kibosh on Quidditch for you.” she explained, her tone regretful.

Frantically, Rhiannon shook her head, the significance not really registering – only the immediacy of the last phrase. _No no no no_ she mouthed, scribbling in the notebook for a moment before passing it to McGonagall, flapping her left hand free of the professor’s grasp. _Happens under distress. Second time it’s gone completely._ _Not always both_ _. Doesn’t happen immediately – there’s a warning_. She wanted to plead with Professor McGonagall, convince her – Hastily Rhi grabbed the notebook back, scrawling an addition. _Broomstick tie – safety cable. At least the practice game. Please._ _I’ve never been good at things before._

Professor McGonagall’s expression was inscrutable, considering. Clearly the professor was unhappy with the idea, and the waiting was agonising. Finally, McGonagall sighed. “We’ll get that broom tie rigged, critical safety exemption. You can play the friendly match. But I need to tell your teammates – so they can keep you safe.”

Rhiannon smiled crookedly, flapping excitedly and wiggling in place – at least she wasn’t losing that, not yet. She’d show them. Then she sobered, considering the events of the last few weeks – her physical safety was in question in more ways than one. Malfoy. Snape. Coughing, she began to write again. Dumbledore had been callous and arrogant, but Malfoy was actively malicious and Snape had not ceased his snide commentary in class. And between the three of them and her usual discomfort with the world, being Harry Potter to most was beginning to hurt.

 _I’m not Harry Potter_ , she scrawled absently at the base of the notepad. She didn’t even notice she’d written it, having been answering the thought train in her head as she mused on the issue before her.

Gently, Professor McGonagall slid the notebook out from Rhiannon’s absently doodling grasp. The girl spluttered, but McGonagall pointedly circled the starting piece. _I’m scared_. “I can’t just ignore that, lass. I’m sorry.” she explained, skimming through the rest of the doodled-on letter with a frown. “Malfoy. And Severus. Well, I’m not surprised more... disappointed they couldn’t hold out any longer, the gits. And you’re not... Well, that explains the flinch. I know you lied to protect yourself at the start lass, I’m under no illusions about the tolerance of the magical world. I’m not angry with you. But I would like to know you as yourself, if it would make you more comfortable.”

Warmth suffused Rhiannon from deep in her core, somewhere older than magic. _I’d like to know you as yourself_ , replayed in her mind. Her weary, tangled mind seized on the simple honesty of it, and she choked back a sudden urge to cry. Happy wasn’t the right word – it was too bittersweet and new. Rubbing at her tired eyes, she smiled a genuine smile, meeting the professor’s gaze for a brief moment and finding only support there. “Rhiannon,” she rasped, her voice a little hoarse and clogged.

The professor’s features crumpled, her lips quivering as tears sprang to her eyes. “Rhiannon,” she repeated softly, the name sounding like a spell in an accent of it’s nature. “It’s like...” here she trailed off, hugging herself gently for a moment and bowing her head. Only that moment of vulnerability was allowed before Minerva McGonagall recomposed herself, dashing the tears from her grey eyes. “Now that I know, I can’t imagine how you were mistaken for anyone else.” she replied, a wry smile creeping into her still strangely sorrowful expression. “But I can’t imagine you are ready for the rest of the castle to know, are you lass. Not given the day you’ve had.”

Slowly, Rhiannon shook her head. She could feel the proverbial closet looming behind her already, hear the creak of its’ hinges. _No,_ she signed, before remembering McGonagall didn’t understand that. Wearily she repeated the phrase on paper. _Scared._ The professor nodded understandingly, a weary sympathy written in the lines around her eyes. “I understand. I know. When you are ready, or if you are forced, I will be here and I will enforce the change in the school paperwork.” she reassured, a gravel rasp creeping into her voice. Without Rhi’s noticing, the sky outside had dimmed, taking on the faint gold of early evening.

“For now, you are exhausted. I will escort you back to your common room, unless you would prefer to stay here for the night.” Minerva changed the subject. Rhiannon shook her head adamantly, though she was loath to leave the comfort of the weighted blanket. Waking up in an unfamiliar space was frightening, and she wanted her friends and her bed and her cat. McGonagall nodded, and helped Rhiannon out of the bed as the still-frail girl struggled with the weight of the blanket. “Let me see what I can do about finding a spare of those, if it helps,” she added as a final reassurance, letting a disoriented Rhi lean on her offered arm as they made their way out of the secluded side room and up through the castle to Gryffindor tower.

________________________________

Following Professor McGonagall’s reassurances, Rhiannon’s school life improved greatly. While the rumours were as vicious as ever, especially given that now more knew about her disability, she was comforted by a sense of protectiveness by much of Gryffindor house. Once in early October, she overheard a fourth-year refer to her as ‘our Potter’ and had to take a moment to cry. Now aware of the problem, Rhiannon’s friends grew quite adept at spotting the onset of a sensory shutdown. So far it had not affected Quidditch – something about the sensation of flight was simultaneously exhilarating and calming, and any other feeling was held separate as if the slipstream was a shield.

The friendly game fast approached, and it was on a breezy, pleasant Sunday the 21st of October that Rhiannon found herself outside on the training grounds, half-assedly studying with her friends in an effort to de-stress and focus in the hours before the informal match. In an unusually introspective mood and surrounded by the adamant support of her friends, Rhi considered over and over the idea of writing to Evelyn and Danjuma Granger, Hermione’s parents, to thank them for their care of her., and was about to voice such when a strident horn sound blasted out across the fields. She clutched her ears a half-second late and startled, swearing under her breath as she swept up her broomstick and belongings in a rush to avoid them being trampled in the rush of students that carried her up with it out to the Quidditch pitch.

Rhiannon dressed in a rush, her back turned to the wall and eyes fixed firmly ahead as she hurriedly switched her school robes for Quidditch ones – labeled with the number 07 and her surname in gold on the red fabric, a caped short tunic in scarlet edged with gold, over leggings and a long-sleeved shirt. Then, vibrating with anxiety, she laced up her pads – reinforced shaped leather from knee to ankle and elbow to wrist, over the top of a pair of fingerless leather gloves and a close-fitting below-knee pair of leather boots. She couldn’t stand the sensation of the regulation full gloves, or rather the lack of sensation, and had chopped the fingers off – to Wood’s disapproval. Finally she tied up her hair, some loose strands stubbornly springing free to hang around her face.

Considering that neat enough for an informal game, Rhi left the changing room with the Chaser girls to join the Weasley twins and Oliver in an adjoining common room, Nimbus in hand and quivering with nerves. She was drawn into a huddle between a Weasley twin and Alicia Spinnet, holding back a sneeze as the taller girl’s blonde hair tickled her face. “Alright, team,” Oliver began. The Weasley twins mouthed along, to his annoyance and everyone else’s amusement. “The first game of the season’s not for a few weeks. This is just a training run – to get the feel of a competitive environment as a team, especially for new players.”

Here he nodded to Rhiannon, and Alicia squeezed her affectionately around the shoulders for a moment in their huddle. “The other teams are going to have new players too, so it’s a last chance for us all to suss eachother out and for older players to figure out how our opponents might have changed from last year before the real season starts next week. We’re facing Ravenclaw. They’ve a new Beater this year, Bliss Kingsley, as well as their new Seeker. Word is she’s a right dead eye, so look out. Fred, George, keep her and Affleck off our Potter here, she’s our secret weapon. Potter, you watch out for Sorcha Cho. She’s got a real fierce streak, likes to play feints but don’t worry too much – you’re as sharp as she is.” Wood continued, reaching over the huddle to muss Rhiannon’s hair good-naturedly. He carried on in this vein for some time, running over possible strategies to watch out for and playing quirks of their opposition, until the eventual interruption of a shrill horn. “That’s the warning. Form up everyone – Potter, behind me. And remember, we’re a team. We’ve got eachother’s backs, whether we’ve been flying together three years or three weeks.”

With that, the team formed up and filed out of the small common area into the passageway leading up to the Quidditch pitch. Rhiannon was glad they’d taken time to practice hovering, and the subtle vibration of the broom while not so noticeable in flight threw her off a little as they waited, white-knuckled and anxious, for the second signal.

So intent on the idea of it, Rhiannon missed the sound of the airhorn itself and was spurred into action by the Weasley twins, quickly catching up to Oliver as the team soared out from below the stands into the air above the pitch to the scattered cheers of the crowded students.

Rhiannon’s pulse thrummed in her ears, the safety harness across her chest felt as if it constricted every breath, and the world around her blurred. The stands were faceless noise, she couldn’t make out details – until she caught on the Ravenclaw players. Their blue robes stood out against the faded green of the ground far below, and to Rhiannon it felt as if the world had shrunk to fourteen people circling the arena. Sounds were muted, but there was no prickling curtain in her vision – it wasn’t a panicked loss of detail, it was a sort of focus she’d not experienced before. Immediately she understood why Wood insisted on a practice match – no amount of training could have prepared her for this particular environment. Her lips chapped in the wind, Rhiannon scanned the opposing players in blue, at once hyper-detailed and insignificant as they – save the Keepers, who headed for their end posts indicated by coloured banners – slowed, forming two semi-circles in the air facing eachother. Across from Rhi in the line, a slender Asian girl with short-cropped spiky black hair and an intense expression hovered between two mismatched beaters – one a broad-shouldered blond boy who held his short club in his left hand, the other a stocky girl with a disarmingly cocky smile and untidy blond ponytail, the bottom third dyed a vibrant sky blue. The Seeker, Sorcha Cho, grinned crookedly at Rhiannon, and she felt her cheeks flush imperceptibly. “First time, Potter?” she teased. Rhiannon coughed into the neck of her tunic, embarrassed, and refocused her attention below them on Madam Hooch. The hawk-eyed Sportsmistress stood before a heavy leather case, open to reveal the four balls within. Though not fully visible at this height, Rhiannon’s attention was on the pocket she knew contained the Snitch. That was her business – she could pass a Quaffle though not score, she could deflect and dodge Bludgers, but the Snitch was worth fifty points and its’ capture ended the game. A quick glance told her that despite the teasing, Sorcha’s focus was on the same. A whistle blast from Madam Hooch, and Rhiannon and Sorcha drew back from eachother to allow the Chasers a united line in front. Rhi barely dared blink lest she miss anything. Three seconds. Two seconds – and a whistle blast. One.

At once, the stillness was shattered as the game erupted into action around her. Rhiannon lurched backwards, grip tight on the broom as she narrowly avoided a Bludger as it rocketed skyward on release. She’d caught the barest glimpse of gold in the turmoil but soon lost it, instead falling into a rhythm from her position a little above her team-mates. She and Sorcha moved as if opposite magnetic poles, circling eachother and keeping their distance in equal measure. The Seeker’s job was as much to block the opposing Seeker as it was to catch the Snitch, and Rhiannon found the split focus a challenge as gradually she formed a patrol arc across the airspace.

Her musing was disrupted by the telltale whistle of a Bludger and she swore, casting about frantically for the culprit. Too late – something collided with her side, knocking the wind from her as she shot sideways. More by good luck than good management she remained mounted on the Nimbus and she swore, shaking her head to clear it. Blue robes and a crooked smile – Cho. Rhi laughed, as much amused as embarrassed. “Better you than that Bludger,” she offered by way of thanks – to a surprisingly good-humoured cackle from her opponent. “Consider it a save, Potter – there’s no sport in you getting knocked off your broom five minutes in, I’m sure Elodie’s not _that_ keen to get up in the air today.” Sorcha replied, her snarky tone balanced by the genuine smile before they broke apart again. Rhiannon snickered to herself. The other Seeker was correct – Gryffindor’s Seeker substitute, Elodie Au, had jokingly made it clear that she was too busy to play, that was why Rhi was on the team after all – and that she’d be ‘right disappointed in you, Potter’ if she had to step in and pick up in Rhiannon’s place. The short Chinese French girl could come off a little severe, but she’d been a surprisingly patient and humorous mentor to Rhi over her first few weeks into team practice.

Time seemed altered as the game drew on in bursts, but gradually Rhiannon’s exclusive focus lifted and she became more aware of the crowd outside of the game – or more specifically, the commentator. When she first noticed him, he’d been positive enough – she couldn’t recognise him at this distance, but by the green she guessed he was a Slytherin – a neutral party she supposed. But as Rhiannon’s confidence grew and she began to interact more closely with the rest of the game, his commentary turned snide. “Unconventional tactics from an unconventional team this year,” was the remark as Rhiannon, too late to dodge a Bludger, pulled up to deflect it off the reinforced handle of her Nimbus instead. And as she and Sorcha narrowly avoided a near miss midair following the Ravenclaw seeker’s feint that Rhiannon had fallen for in frustration, “Oooh, did you see that? A display of aggression from Gryffindor’s Harry Potter – almost masculine there. Good show, ladies,” the commentator drawled. Rhiannon’s skin crawled not at her name – _he knew, someone told him – Malfoy told him_. The blond boy’s resentful scowl flashed across her sparking retinas.

Doggedly she tuned him out, his remarks growing more and more mocking as Gryffindor drew ahead of Ravenclaw in points, and every creative tactic Rhi employed was met with sly taunting that ranged from backhanded compliments to uncomfortable insinuations, and at times barely-concealed derision.

Rhiannon’s perception of the crowd was patchy at best, and she failed to calculate a dodge properly, fully colliding with the Ravenclaw Chaser Hugo Fowler. Dazed and swearing, she lurched backwards, the commentator’s mocking drawl blending into the boos of the crowd, her hip aching where she’d caught Fowler’s broomstick. Frustrated at her own inattention she hit herself in the temple with the palm of her head and then shook herself, refocusing on the match and-

There.

Hovering low in the air, metres above the ground, was the Golden Snitch. Sorcha had already noticed, and Rhiannon ducked under a poorly-aimed Quaffle to give chase. Her Nimbus was faster than Sorcha’s Cleansweep Seven but Sorcha had the head start, and Rhiannon flattened herself against her broom, eyes streaming behind her glasses, to give chase.

They closed on the Snitch, memories flashing back of the time she’d first caught Neville’s Remembrall and overlapping with the present as she drew nearer. Golden Snitch, red and brass Remembrall. Sneering commentator, Draco Malfoy. Nimbus 2000, school loan Shooting Star, the images alternated in a disorienting fashion and Rhiannon clenched her teeth, left hand outstretched and trembling. Still Cho was ahead, and the world seemed strangely flattened as Rhi gained inches on her opponent.

Just as it had the first time, the catch happened all at once. Rhiannon tucked her right shoulder, urging the Nimbus forward in a last desperate lunge and crashed into the opposing Seeker. Her palm struck the winged ball and she clutched it tightly, off balance from the move as she struggled to pull up with her free hand.

Rhiannon slowed and pulled out of the dive but failed to calculate momentum and she tumbled forward from the broom, winded and free-falling and – _whump._ She hit the ground not far below, her elbows striking the ground first, Rhi skidded in the dry grass with her broom tucked awkwardly under her left arm still attached by the harness. Dazed, she lay a moment face-down in the dirt, too winded to even curse. Then, coughing weakly, she propped herself up on bruised elbows, the crowd’s roar dizzying and disorienting – could she stand? No ribs broken. Glasses – glasses, she found them crumpled beside her, frames bent but lenses intact. Rhi took a moment to straighten them and unclipped herself from the broomstick, holding it tail up as she used its’ handle to push herself up off the ground and then steady herself as she swayed in place. Her knees ached and she coughed again, ribs protesting. They’d be bruised too.

Gradually, Rhiannon began to take in her surroundings as the other players landed, sound still patchy. One voice though, that carried. The commentator. “And that’s the game, Hogwarts! First dry run of the season, 90-40 to Gryffindor! And a right tenacious move at the end there – truculent tactics from rookie transsexual Seeker, Harry Potter-”  
Rhiannon wasn’t sure if she’d heard, she processed it so slowly. Then she went very cold, and very still, as the implication registered with her and she stared up into the stands around, numb with horror as the dull roar of the crowd washed over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is why I had a chapter outline that DIDN'T end like this because fuck this shit, fuck this shit all the way. But I promise it all gets better in the bit that I'm 95% finished writing. It does not go how transphobic fuckfaces plan.


	14. Out in the Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon is outed to most of Hogwarts' student body by the Quidditch commentator and has to deal with the fallout. She is pleasantly surprised by the support she receives in response, albeit a little overwhelmed. Afterwards she goes to visit Hagrid to fill him in, since he was the first person she came out to - it feels right to her that he should know about it, yeah?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yeah, the commentator's a dick. Wanted to punch the git as I wrote him. Rhi going stealth wasn't really sustainable long-term and I'm really really going to enjoy writing her as *her*, now she can finally correct people on her name. It's 5am. Good fucking night my head hurts.
> 
> Content warning for outing, trauma, transphobia, transmisogyny, panic attack, overwhelming crowd. and then further content warning for mention and description of an abused animal seen earlier in the fic.

Everything was very, very quiet. Dimly Rhiannon was aware that the crowd surged in the stands, but with those words she was done for and she numbly turned a circle, taking in the roaring crowd she couldn’t hear, her panic rising. Her vision stayed traitorously clear even as her palms sweated on her broomstick, causing her to slip and stagger. That broke the horrified trance and she whirled around again, feverishly seeking the passageway below the stands. She bolted like a frightened fawn, the gloating elaboration of the commentator fading in and out of her awareness as if chasing her from the pitch.

Below the stands, the team room was quiet – but not safe, not safe, she abandoned her broomstick and snatched at her backpack left on a bench before dashing from the room, the thud of her feet thudding through her protesting knees as they carried her away from the pitch, across a back field, the Forbidden Forest hulking in the distance as she pelted downhill towards – well, she wasn’t sure where. Away. Anywhere. And she might have got there, had she not found a rabbit hole with her foot, sending her careening to the ground again.

This time Rhiannon stayed down, the fall breaking through her unreasoning panic as she curled in on herself, sobbing with fear and rage and hurt. Finally, worn down, the familiar sparks glimmered in the sliver of vision blurred by tears. She might have stayed there for some time, had she been allowed. But this time she wasn’t alone. Had she been calmer, she might have remembered Oliver Wood’s before they took flight – _“We’re a team._ _We’ve got eachother’s backs, whether we’ve been flying together_ _three_ _years or three weeks.”_ Were she calmer, she might have remembered and questioned whether that had really included her. But as it was, the sparking haze of her teary vision was swallowed up by red and gold, and someone – several someones – knelt on the ground around her. A hand was on her shoulder and Rhiannon flinched away, shrinking into a fetal huddle. She blundered into someone’s chest, her temple met boiled leather padding and she was encircled in a hug and helped into a sitting position, still supported on all sides.

Dimly, she realised – red. Gryffindor red. And the boiled leather in her face, Beater padding. Rhiannon pushed her way out of the hug, staring around her at five familiar faces, their expressions sympathetic.

“Y-y-ou-you,” she tried to speak, her words catching in a torrential flood of stammer tangle. Rhi coughed, rubbed at her eyes and tried again, breathing still coming a little too fast. “Y-you’re n-no-not, not angry?” she asked, a sob breaking the end of her words. She couldn’t quite fathom it – her dormmates she understood, they were her own age and she’d had Hermione – where was Hermione, she’d run off alone, she wasn’t allowed to-

A lower voice than her own interrupted her racing self-chastisement. “Angry? Oh, you bet. Oliver would be here but last I saw he had Aaron fucking Prentiss in a headlock,” Angelina Johnson replied. That was the name – she’d been unable to identify the commentator by sight, that was his name. Another gasping sob escaped her trembling lips, and someone else drew her into another hug. “Angry at you, though? Never.” Katie – it was Katie who held Rhiannon – added, her voice grim. “We might need to get Bryn to fill in as Keeper next week though, Wood’ll be in the shit by now,” she finished.

Rhi shook her head again, and gradually the close huddle relaxed some. Awkwardly, Rhi scooted across the ground to sit between the Weasley twins, uncomfortable in the middle of the rough circle. One of the twins ruffled her hair, the other squished her into a sideways hug for a brief moment. “We already knew. Why do you think we called you our Potter? We’re no geniuses-” at this his brother snickered and Fred, she guessed, the twins had slight differences in their inflections, swatted George before continuing “-but it didn’t take one to see you flinch every time someone said your name. Wasn’t any our business until Prentiss made it everyone’s business.”

At mention of the Slytherin seventh-year, Rhiannon shuddered and drew her knees up to her chest, resting her head between them as she tried to push her breathing into some sort of consistent rhythm. “H-he knew, I could hear it right from when I bounced that Bludger,” she whispered. Someone – Alicia? - cracked their knuckles. “We figured. He carried right on at the end with a whole story” – at this, Katie glared at Alicia who was speaking – “What? She’ll just stress if she’s wandering around the school with half a story and rumours in every hallway. Aside from Wood, last I saw McGonagall was spittin’ fire – Prentiss and whoever dobbed you in are in deep shit too,” Alicia finished, returning Katie’s glare.

They went back and forth for a little while before Angelina, ever practical, broke through to address Rhiannon. “Not to state the obvious, but the cat – or the Seeker – ‘s out the bag. And that’s got to suck. But you don’t have to keep pretending to be Harry Potter anymore. We’d like to have the _real_ you on our team.” she said, reaching a gloved hand across the little circle to hold one of Rhiannon’s for a moment. Rhi only shook her head, still hugging her knees. They knew – if Fred was to be believed, they’d known from the start – and they didn’t care. Or rather, they cared about _her_ , not the scandal her identity was made out to be, enough to risk school trouble for her.

Decisively, Rhi took a deep breath and relaxed, shifting into a cross-legged position to ease her complaining knees. She fished in her backpack, fresh tears streaming down her overwhelmed face. She couldn’t speak through them so she found the increasingly battered notepad and flipped to the cardboard back – the only unlined part of it. In a messy, overlarge script Rhiannon printed her own name – concentrating on the shapes of the letters settled her anxiety somewhat.

 _RHIANNON._ _RHIANNON HESTIA POTTER._

A shy smile spread across her face like sunlight through stormclouds, her eyes still streaming with tears that fogged up her by-now-filthy glasses “I’m Rhiannon!” she repeated out loud, a real grin spreading across her face as she tilted it back to catch the faint warmth of the afternoon sunlight and let the tears run down her neck and into her ears, a helpless laugh drawn out of her as she squished herself with her own arms and then joyfully flapped them around her face, still crying amid the laughter. Her teammates joined her, George cackling as she accidentally slapped him when he attempted to hug her again.

It was like this, laughing and overwhelmed and so essentially _joyous_ that Hermione, Neville and Rhiannon’s other friends of her own age found her. They’d struggled to get free of the rest of the crowd and had been worried for Rhiannon, so the sight eased them somewhat and it was almost shyly that they joined Rhi and the Quidditch team in their little circle on the ground. That broke the moment, and Rhiannon turned an embarrassed gaze on her friends, dashing aside her tears and coughing to clear her throat. “I-I’m okay. Really. I mean I’m no-not, not completely but... I’m safe.” she reassured them, catching a worried Neville’s hand and squeezing her, shaking her head. _Ok_ , she spelled against the pulse point of his wrist. _All ok._ He returned her smile as she released his hand, and Rhi was reassured as he quietly drew one hand into a fist and released his fingers with a sort of springing motion, a lopsided grin growing on his face. That was Neville’s version of happy hands. A glance confirmed Rhi’s hunch, yes indeed Hermione was making ‘piano hands’ knuckles, a sort of ripple in which she curled first her pinky finger into her hand and then the rest in order, then released them again beginning with the smallest. A shared glance was permission, and Hermione seized Rhiannon from behind in a clumsy bear-hug, humming happily – she tried to squish it, but Hermione’s emotions were always big and expressionate none more so than the good ones, and Rhiannon knew her first friend felt all stuck inside if she couldn’t let them out. Laughing and sniffing away the last of her tears, Rhi pushed Hermione off her at last and stood, dusting the grass from the back of her sports’ tunic as she did so.

“Want to go see Hagrid,” she explained at the questioning glances she was cast. The gentle groundskeeper had been the first person Rhi had come out to, so to speak, and she wanted to share all the good she was feeling with him – it felt as if it would all run out if she didn’t share it. In a rustle of motion, the rest of her year-group friends stood and joined her; surrounded, Rhi had never felt safer. Granted that was a low bar, but the point still stood. As ever, her room-mates were closest save for the ever-absent Lavender Brown – they still didn’t get on; Ron and Neville, and then her friends outside Gryffindor – Morag, Emilia and Padma and... wait. There was a little more than just her usual friends here. Gryffindor boys she barely knew – Dean, Eric and Aeden - Stephen Cornfoot, Kevin Entwhistle and Ishak Levin – Ravenclaw boys she’d barely said two words to. Pretty much most of Hufflepuff’s first year aside from one or two of the boys. And, shamefaced, three Slytherin girls – two, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis were usually friendly with Rhiannon but she had to mentally scramble for the name of the third – Heather Pace. It was one of the Hufflepuffs who spoke up, sharing awkward glances with the rest of the wider group. “We um... we wanted to come support you,” she explained, pushing untidy brown hair out of her eyes – Susan Bones, that was it. “They were saying horrible things and we um... we wanted to, I guess, show which side we were on. You’re the Girl Who Lived to us and we’ve got your back.” one of the Ravenclaw boys added.

A solid three quarters or more of the first year was represented, and a lump rose in Rhiannon’s throat even as she quailed under the pressure. She shook her head, looking to Hermione for help – the crowd was too big, she hadn’t realised how big it was, they’d all seen her being a _freak_ , she couldn’t, she wanted to tell them she was happy but _please_ to go away . But Hermione too was threatened by the pressure and she shrank against Rhiannon’s side, shaking her head. It was Ron who stepped up. “Okay, support, great. We love to see it. But Rhi doesn’t like crowds, hell you saw that pretty bloody clearly just a bit ago . So if you could all just mosey off for the minute. I get you want to take a stand and all but please don’t put my friend in the middle of it – she’s a person, not a symbol.” he stated firmly, flapping his hands at the throng of students in a shooing motion. Some protested and he scowled at them, shaking his head. “Do you wanna support Rhiannon or make a point? We appreciate it, but Rhi won’t be able to appreciate it if you stress her out so _please_ bugger off before you turn into another stress factor. Thanks. Goodbye.”

His words were reinforced by his brothers, who raised their Beaters’ clubs threateningly, and eventually Rhiannon was left with just her team-mates, and her Gryffindor friends. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes tiredly, making a face at the dry crusty crackly feeling on her face. “Thanks,” she offered simply. The rest of the Quidditch team stood, shaking themselves and rubbing stiffness from their limbs. “We’ll show you off to Hagrid’s, chase off any other would-be well-wishers,” Katie explained as the team formed a loose semicircle around Rhiannon and her smaller friend-group, making a sort of escort for them the rest of the way to Hagrid’s garden.

The escort proved unnecessary, but Rhiannon guessed it was a point of honour to her team-mates and humoured them. She drew the line at actually accompanying her to see Hagrid. “He’s known for months I’ll be _fine_ , honestly George,” she said. “Let me _breathe_ you’re a bunch of mother hens, honestly,” she chastised him. Immediately she was embarrassed by the small outburst, to the amusement of the five older students. “Rhi Potter’s got some fire after all – not that anyone should o’ doubted, even Cho underestimated that!” Fred teased her, dancing out of reach as Faye jokingly attempted to hit him with her backpack in retaliation. But he got the message, and the five turned to leave. “Best we go see where Wood fetched up,” Angelina suggested. They all laughed at that, and Fred and George turned back to their brother. “Oi, Ronnie-boy,” George said, prodding him in the chest with his wand. “You take care of our girl or you’ve us to deal with.” he warned. Ron scowled and opened his mouth to protest, Fred darted forwards and mussed his hair up and with that, they ran off laughing. The three girls followed at a more sedate pace with some shared rolling of eyes, and _finally_ Rhiannon was left in peace.

Uncertainly, Rhiannon and her friends made their way around the side of Hagrid’s house to where Rhi could see the edge of a garden, some muffled noise suggesting that might be where they’d find Hagrid. They were greeted by excited barking and Rhiannon went stiff and shrank back into Neville, but she knew Fang was there – it wasn’t so bad this time. Fang’s excitement alerted Hagrid to their presence and a smile spread across the big man’s craggy face even as he restrained the dog. “Ah, _settle_ ya fuzzy mutt, you’ve met her before and don’t you remember how that went?” he reminded the dog, ruffling his ears. Rhiannon ran forward and hugged Hagrid, still a little overwhelmed. His coat was scratchy and smelled like the outdoors, dirt and dogs and horses and strange plants she couldn’t name. She drew back and sneezed, then wiped her face, embarrassed. “T-these are my other friends, Neville and Parvati and Faye and Ron. You know Hermione. I, um. I had a weird day. Kind of a bad day. Kind of a good day. Kind of a lot all at once you look busy I’m sorry – can we help at all? I don’t know anything about gardening but I can try.”

Hagrid ruffled her hair, by now long escaped from its’ ponytail. “Good thing you picked harvest season to learn, then. I’m right about done with picking it all so now we turn it over – grab a fork o’er there, pick a spot, you want t’ knock down any o’ the stalks still standing and turn it all into the dirt. Good thing I got spares from the Herbology kids.” he explained cheerfully, taking it in stride. He gestured to where a collection of tall garden forks leaned against the wall, and soon the Gryffindors were set to work. Rhiannon ended up over by Hagrid, and she relayed the events of the day to him – to his disgust, of course. “Insolent wee git. He’ll be in for it when Minnie gets him, him and whoever he got it from,” he said with an uncharacteristically vicious, satisfied edge to his tone. His words echoed what Rhiannon’s Quidditch friends had said of the matter, and now that she was in a better headspace Rhi could share his sentiment – though she did find his reference to the stern Professor McGonagall as ‘Minnie’ to be hilarious. Hagrid patted her shoulder, almost knocking her to the ground. “Well, it’s out now, for better or worse. I’m glad you’ve good mates on your side even if the rest of your year are a bit clumsy ‘bout it. Better clumsy than malicious.” he sympathised awkwardly, kneeling in the dirt so he didn’t tower over the eleven-year-old girl. “Guess you don’t have t’ pretend to be anyone’s Harry Potter. All the ones that might be gits about it are out now too. It’s not gonna be easy but... you’re free.”

Rhiannon nodded slowly, a wry frown creasing her tired face. Hagrid was right of course – it wasn’t going to be easy but having everything all out in the open, it did offer a freedom she hadn’t expected so soon, even if it had taken her choice of how and when and where away from her. She didn’t have to pretend anymore. Harry Potter wasn’t the Girl Who Lived – Harry had never really existed. She was just Rhiannon and – _wait_. It occurred to her that Hagrid didn’t know. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to tell him.

“I stopped pretending on the inside a while ago,” Rhi admitted shamefaced. “I forgot to tell you it’s all been such a tangle I’m _sorry_ I forgot I- damnit. H-Hermione and me and some of my friends found my real name in a library book. We were doing extra history study and got sort of, side tracked, and we found it and I -” she cut herself off, taking a breath and steadying the racing train of apologies. Nope. Not now. “I’m Rhiannon. My friends have been calling me that for about a month it skipped my mind I’m so- not going there. I’m Rhiannon.”

Hagrid, as ever, was calm and easy-going about her broken and distractible patterns of speech, but as Rhiannon said her name he stopped and covered his mouth with one dirty hand, his black eyes welling with tears – just as Professor McGonagall had. She tilted her head curiously, squeezing the side of Hagrid’s other hand a little awkwardly. “I’m sorry I – I hate to ask but, Professor McGonagall had much the same reaction so it’s obvious it means something to you that I’m missing, i-if you feel comfortable telling me – if you don’t I’m sorry,” Rhi stammered, her words all tangling up in an effort not to cause any offence she might imagine. Hagrid shook his head mutely, taking a moment to settle himself.

“No, I’m sorry lass – you just surprised me. It’s, well, it’s your mum. _Rhiannon_ was her favourite song. She was really into music you know, really – she brought the kind of magic you _feel_ into this old school that thinks fine music is toads croaking along with a fuddy ol’ choir. An’ she sang for us one year, her las’ year at Hogwarts. Flitwick talked her into performing for the graduation ceremony, and that’s what she sang. Lot of Hogwarts wouldn’t believe when she told ‘em it was a Muggle song. So for us that knew her... that’s how we remember her. One of the most, bright I guess, ways, anyway.” Hagrid explained, his voice rough with bitten-back sorrow. Rhiannon felt a lump rise in her throat, and she leaned on her fork as she kept turning over dead stalks and ambitious weed sprouts in silence.

“It’s a sad thing, that memory. But your name isn’t. These-” here Hagrid gestured to his watery eyes – “Aren’t just sad tears. You’re your own person, but sometimes history repeats in ways that catch us old people off guard.”

Rhiannon nodded quietly, she thought she understood. All she knew of her parents was that they died, and that picture she’d left in Gringotts. Hagrid’s story filled in some of those gaps, made them seem like real people instead of voiceless strangers. Rhi didn’t know the song in question – she didn’t know much music at all really, never had a chance to. But maybe it seemed like something she could share with them more than just the blood that seemed to matter so much to some people – the same blood that tied her to the Dursleys, and really didn’t mean much at all to Rhiannon as a result.

Hagrid sniffed, wiping his face and pushing some of his unruly hair out of his eyes and again taking a moment to settle himself, visibly casting around for some other topic of discussion. “Oi, Ron – Weasley, right? How’s your brother Charlie doin’ for himself?” he asked, calling across the garden to the redheaded boy who took to the stalks with his fork as if they’d personally offended him. Ron stopped when Hagrid addressed him, setting the fork against the fence and heading over closer to him and Rhiannon. “Decent. Got a spot with a dragon sanctuary up in Romania rehabilitating rescued ones, they just got a Norwegian Ridgeback in a few weeks ago – he sent me a letter all excited, said you’d know what that means.” he replied. Hagrid’s entire demeanour shifted, and his face split in a grin. “Aw, the bastard, he _knows_ they’re my favourites,” Hagrid groaned enviously. Rhi’s attention was sufficiently caught too, and gradually the other Gryffindors drifted in to rest with them, sensing work was about done for the now-evening.

“We read about them in class – or, we were reading about Hebridean Blacks and I skipped ahead,” Rhi offered. “They’re venomous, right? And they imprint pretty strongly, but people thought they didn’t at all for ages because they’re just really bitey.” Hermione added on. Hagrid nodded enthusiastically. “They just like to rough-house, it’s how they bond with their parents. Lots of magical critters like that, only pretty recently wizards learned any dif’rent about ‘em. Ol’ Kettleburn still got you first years on _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , righ’? Good man, Scamander, he’s responsible for changing a lot o’ minds about this stuff. Before him people thought you couldn’t tame a Cerberos you know – the silly beggars, Fluffy’d teach ‘em different. Had a few get all spooked and he just wanted to lick ‘em.”

Cerberos – Cerberen. A magical species named for the legendary Greek monster of the same name. A giant – _three, headed, dog_.

Rhiannon felt sick at the realisation. “You had a Cerberos?” she asked, wanting to give Hagrid the benefit of the doubt – from what she knew of the man, he’d not leave an animal like that. Hagrid nodded enthusiastically, a fond smile spreading across his face. “Named ‘im Ceri, but Fluffy usually sticks. He’s about two now – playful, and whip-smart too – knows exac’ly who’s friends and who’s to stay out. Lent ‘im to Dumbledore for uh... yeah, lent ‘im.”  
Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief, soon overtaken by a rising sick rage again. “I think we met Fluffy. Third floor corridor, steel-bound heavy door. Hagrid – it stank. You know dogs freak me out, even Fang -” here she gestured at the boarhound, who lay on his back obligingly wiggling from side to side - “-I was too upset at the time to really lose it like I did with Fang that first time, Hagrid, he’s sick. He’s locked in a room smaller than our dorm. Window the size of my schoolbooks. He’s chained to the floor, as if he could go anywhere, he –“ Rhiannon ran out of words, choking, bile rising in her throat. Hagrid looked – she couldn’t describe it. Ashen-faced, the giant man stood and staggered away from them, weak-kneed. From around the side of his cabin, they could hear the unmistakeable sound of retching, and Rhiannon shared a miserable glance with her friends. Ron, Hermione and Faye had met Fluffy too, and Parvati and Neville had heard the story albeit in scarce detail, it had sickened the others too much to recount it.

Hagrid returned, still pale and ill-looking, all good humour gone as he knotted his hands together. “Gotta, gotta go see him. Gotta get him out.” he muttered, sinking to his knees in the dirt. He sat down then, cross-legged, his head in his hands. Rhiannon and her friends huddled around in the freshly-turned dirt. “We want to help,” Hermione added shakily. “That was our first day of class. I can’t believe we forgot about it we just – didn’t know who to ask I guess. He must be worse by now if he’s even – I mean, he must be, if he’s guarding something for Professor Dumbledore.”

Hagrid laughed mirthlessly. “That’s the thing about Cerberen. Very hard, near impossible, to get dead. They can guard something for centuries with very little sustenance. They’re survivors. So there’s a pretty big gap between what people know they can _survive_ on, and what they need to _live._ Always thought Dumbledore was better’n that... maybe he doesn’t know.” he trailed off, face turning dark. Privately, Rhiannon thought it very likely Dumbledore was as callous with the magical dog’s needs as he had been with her own – but it didn’t seem the right time to say so. Seemed like adding insult to injury.

“We do-don’t have Astronomy on Monday ni-ghts. Best do it tomorrow – we can stay up studying, we won’t be missed,” Rhi suggested haltingly, speaking slowly to attempt to bypass the stutter that always worsened in strong emotions. Faye and Ron groaned, but the both of them agreed. “Me and Neville will cover for you,” Parvati suggested. Neville shot her a panicked glance, Rhiannon shook her head. _You can do this. Don’t even have to talk_ , she mouthed to Neville. “Can try,” he mumbled by way of agreement. Parvati smiled encouragingly. “Don’t worry, you just have to be there. Don’t have to say anything – I know you hate the dark.” she reassured him.

Ron shook his head numbly. “I’ll write Charlie. Dragon sanctuary occasionally takes on other cases, I’m sure he’ll make an exception – damnit, I should have thought of him sooner, he's on a job just over in Wales right now - I’m sorry Hagrid.” he muttered, an air of defeat hanging over the whole group. Rhiannon bit her lip, worrying at the chapped skin with her teeth. “W-we’ll want to take him out through the lower east corridor. Herbo-bology sss-side. Faye, can you handle Peeves? Ask Fred and George if you need but if the ‘geist catches us w-we’re bust.” she suggested, to a nod from Faye. And with that, they had a rough plan. Rhiannon then turned back to Hagrid. “We’ll get him out, Hagrid.” she murmured, though she still didn’t meet the gentle man’s gaze. Who were they to plan something like this – a gamekeeper and six kids? They had to try.

Anxiously, Rhi cast her eyes around for something more, something she might have missed - but they were losing the light, the last of the sun’s rays disappearing behind the forbidding mass of the Forest. Hagrid followed her gaze and frowned, still preoccupied by worry and what looked concerningly to Rhiannon like a touch of desperate panic. “S’late. I’ll walk the lot of you’s back to the castle, else you’ll be in trouble again – tell Filch you was helping me. And Rhiannon – thankyou.” he said finally. Rhiannon nodded, mouth twisting sadly. “We’ll get him out. Tomorrow. I’m just sorry we didn’t figure it out sooner.” she finished weakly, to a shake of Hagrid’s shaggy head. “We’ll get him out. Off with the lot of you.” he finished firmly, shooing them away ahead of him out of the garden and off up the rambling path back to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's another sad end. Seems to be a me theme. It won't be like that forever, probably. My head hurts and one chapter turned into two, I'm going to go shower, it's 5am. At least it's easy to move on from here - and Fluffy's gonna get rescued. Lemme promise you that. Yeah yeah spoiler w/e but I'm not leaving the damn dog in there. Good night.


	15. Fluffy's Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon and co smuggle Fluffy out of Hogwarts with the assistance of Ron's older brother Charlie. They are caught returning and because it's the second offence, they find themselves with term time detention.  
> Working during the feast, Rhiannon and Ron are accosted by a troll in the dungeons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's 11pm, I forgot what it felt like to finish a chapter at a decent hour. The last two were posted in a bit of a mess. So I forgot to address - holy shit fam, we've got 1000 hits. We hit that back the day before I posted chapter 13 and I meant to say something and then it was 5:17am and I'd forgotten. And in much the same time, we got to 50k words.  
> I've got overarching plans leading right up to the end of HBP now, and the chapters of Reimagined!Philosopher's Stone all plotted out. We're looking at about twenty seven chapters which means I'm over half way there. Holy shit. Gonna say it now, you are not going to like how I'm planning to end this but I DO promise I have my reasons, they are good reasons, and it is all linked to the found family protecting eachother thing I'm going for here.  
> Without further ado, chapter fifteen!
> 
> Content warning: Depiction of an abused and neglected animal. Referenced transphobia, suggested unfair punishment and abuse of authority, implied past trauma.

Rhiannon and her friends stumbled through the motions of Monday on little sleep and less attention. Transfiguration and History of Magic made for an exhausting morning and they fumbled their way through their afternoon classes just as poorly. A concerned Professor Kettleburn excused them from class early, and they had nothing to do but wait as the hours dragged by, the sun remaining stubbornly fixed in the sky. A weary spotted owl reached them early in the evening, Charlie’s reply promising to meet them outside the castle wards that night – luckily he’d been in the country collecting an abandoned Welsh Green clutch, they’d almost missed him.

Rhi swore she’d only rest a moment, curled up on a couch in a secluded corner of the Gryffindor common room with Calypso in her lap, but the next she knew someone was shaking her in the near-darkness. “Rhi, time to go,” someone whispered.

Rhiannon startled awake, knocking into someone’s hard cheekbone with her forehead as she shot upright. “ _Fuck_ , Rhi, ow!” they hissed. Ah – Faye. Groaning and rubbing her crusty eyes, Rhiannon gently set a protesting Callie to one side of the couch as she stood and crept downstairs with her friends in tow. She, Ron and Hermione split from Faye when they reached the third floor, the brunette heading off around a side landing – Rhiannon didn’t really question why and just left her to it, assuming she had something planned. A lamplight somewhere above them signaled caretaker Filch’s presence and the three of them darted into the shadows of the out-of-bounds corridor to hide. They hardly dared to breathe as someone’s heavy footsteps sounded on the stone floor, muffled by the thick coating of dust. And now that they knew what to look for, all three could smell the reek wafting from under the iron-bound door. “Rhiannon? Lass?” a rough voice whispered nearby – or as like a whisper as Hagrid could manage. Rhiannon lurched out of hiding, nerves racing – this was a stupid plan, they were going to get caught and Fluffy would be worse off, who did they think they were trying, surely they should give up and go back – no. No. Rhiannon shook her head resolutely, craning her neck to meet Hagrid’s gaze in the low light. “W-We-We’re ready. What do we do?” she replied, tripping over her words as she knotted her hands together anxiously. Hagrid rubbed watery eyes with his hand, leaning against the wall a moment.

“One ‘f you needs to lead me ‘n Fluffy out the castle. Can’t think where I’m going and handle him at once. ‘Nother go ahead every so often – best be you, lass, keep you and Fluff separate for now. Someone else bring up the rear – warn me if you see anything, yeah? In a pinch I can get ‘im out myself but you’ll need to split if it comes to that.” Hagrid said, laying out a brief plan for them. All were anxious to get moving and they decided Hermione would lead, Ron would bring up the rear. Hagrid had brought a stretch of sturdy canvas that he’d use essentially to extend his arms, he assured them he’d be strong enough to carry most of the great dog’s weight, but didn’t want to take the risk of dropping him if he weakened.

The four of them faced the heavy door, Rhiannon sharing a pensive glance with Hermione as they cleared aside to allow Hagrid better access. Rhi wished she knew more than just theory of something like a Courage Charm, even in the scarce light of the corridor she could see the big man swayed on his feet. “For what it’s worth, Fluffy’s worth expulsion,” she said with a half-smile. Hagrid barked a startled laugh, the sound echoed a moment in the still air before it was swept aside by a wave of rank stench as, galvanised into action, Hagrid pulled the door open without the slightest regard for the locking mechanisms that crumbled in the face of his strength.

All three had faced Fluffy that first day when they got lost that first day, and all realised on some level that a month and a half had passed since then. But even the brief glimpse of the room beyond the iron-bound wooden door had Rhiannon’s stomach turning, the walls beyond felt hungry – as if they wanted to swallow her whole, draw her in to trap her within forever. Hagrid let out a low moan of horror and lurched forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He let out a soft keening sound, almost doubled over retching nothing but bile. There was a dull clink of chain shifting on the floor, and a fresh stink assailed her – the copper reek of blood.

Hagrid stood and staggered into the room, a heavy thud told Rhiannon that the big man had fallen to his knees – she couldn’t bear to look, her mind filling in the image already. A low groaning whine sounded from the room, frighteningly soft for the animal they knew it belonged to, repeating over itself in an eerie disharmony. A shuffling clanking sound did nothing to drown the dog’s piteous tripled whine, as evidently Hagrid fished for something under his heavy coat. He grunted, straining against something, and then there was a sharp _clank_ of breaking metal, and a discordant jangle Rhiannon belatedly identified as falling chain. Perhaps a month ago that might have been followed by the desperate scrabble of dull and bloodied claws on the filthy stone of the floor, but as it was all Rhiannon heard was a dull _whumpwhumpwhump_ , heavy like leather – she choked back a sob as she realised that was all the dog could respond with, and that even in his condition he still trusted his master, still tried to greet him.

“Rhiannon, get going on. Hermione, you turn around – I don’t want anyone to see this what doesn’t have to.” Hagrid’s voice sounded too loud over Fluffy’s low whimpers, muffled scraping and shuffling sounds matched with the occasional pained yelp accompanying him as Rhiannon guessed he rigged the canvas into a sling around the dog’s chest. He grunted with effort, and Rhiannon caught a glimpse of the sling anchored over his shoulder against his neck, a canine frame seen side-on supported under his arm before she turned and fled, stumbling the first few steps and catching herself against the railing of the stair lest she fall. At a more steady pace she descended the stairs, remembering to step over the trick step that had trapped her cat that first day and hurrying down the rest, her heart and breath racing as she forced herself not to run from the room she was sure would haunt her nightmares.

For all their anxiety in planning, the four of them and Fluffy managed to creep out of the castle with relatively little disturbance – Fluffy was worryingly quiet, though Rhiannon could hear Hagrid’s muffled murmuring some way behind her as she stayed ahead of the group. At one time she was startled by Caretaker Filch’s cat, but Mrs Norris’ orange eyes grew round in horror and she skittered away with a frightened yowl as evidently she caught sight of Fluffy and Hagrid some way behind Rhiannon herself.

Rhiannon felt a weight slip from her shoulders as they left the castle, the moon hanging almost three-quarters full above them and the velvet sky carpeted thickly with stars, and as they passed the outer wall of Hogwarts’ grounds Rhi felt almost _light_ , for the first time since realising what they had unwittingly left Fluffy to endure. As she reached the agreed-upon meeting place outside the range of Hogwarts’ wards near the part of the Forbidden Forest that ran alongside the road down to Hogsmeade Rhi slowed, the frantic energy of the past two days catching up with her. She might have fallen, had Hermione not steadied her as she and the others caught up to Rhiannon, and as it was she swayed on her feet.

A sharp _crack_ split the night, and a redheaded man bearing a striking resemblance to Ron but more closely the twins stepped from an Apparition rift onto the dewy late-night grass before them, holding what looked to Rhiannon’s uninformed eyes to be a tangle of iridescent silvery nylon-like woven fibre and strapping.

“Side-Along Apparition harness,” the man explained at her bewildered glance. “Magical animals fuck with usual Apparition fields a bit and this counters that – something about the properties of the unicorn hair it’s woven from. Plus keeps us attached in case we _do_ get thrown off a touch. Breaks all kinds of international regulations transporting a critter like this without a permit, so we want to get it done quick and from the look of the poor bastard, better we ask forgiveness than permission – it’d be too damn late if we waited for that.” he added, striding forward into Hagrid’s free arm for a hug as the gamekeeper’s stoic expression trembled. Having turned to watch the redheaded man, Rhiannon could now take in the full extent of Fluffy’s condition and she felt her as if her heart pressed at the back of her throat. The animal’s coat was patchy and his skin scabbed, and at this close range Rhi could find the source of the blood she’d smelled earlier, in desperation he had tried to gnaw at the harness under his chest, succeeding only in injuring himself. She remembered numbly how callous Headmaster Dumbledore had been about her own wellbeing - _“_ _Certainly, they may have struck you – any parent does, you know. It’s simply a part of growing up –_ _you’re in no danger with your family...”_

And that was the way he had thought of the ‘Boy’ Who Lived, supposedly a wizarding hero. It was no wonder he had even less thought for the welfare of an animal – no, a _monster_ , she recalled the wording of her textbook clearly. And yet for what little she had seen of the room it was mostly clear of physical waste. Someone had attended to keeping the room clear, and not seen fit to provide Fluffy with suitable food at the same time – it was callous neglect, they hadn’t just locked him up and forgotten about him they’d known and they didn’t _care_ – Rhiannon broke away sobbing, hugging her arms to her chest. Someone taller – Ron, she guessed - drew her into a hug and she couldn’t even muster the energy to flinch at the prickle of wool on her sensitive face.

When Rhiannon could breathe again she pushed gently on Ron’s chest and stepped out of the hug. With Hagrid’s help the red-haired man – Charlie Weasley – had loosely fastened the harness around Fluffy’s bony chest and he stepped clear, giving Hagrid a last moment as he faced the three students. He shook his head, a low sigh was all he could manage in the moment and he wiped his eyes in the crook of his elbow before addressing them.

“You did good, Ron, girls. Bit later than we’d like but... you can’t be blamed for not knowing who to take it to I guess. Fucking Dumbledore – all the work the sanctuary puts into educating wizards on fair care of magical creatures, even as guards... I guess some’re always like to them as tools.” Charlie said, his voice growing bitter. Rhiannon scrubbed at her prickling eyes and wiped her nose on her already grubby sleeve, and in doing so must have revealed the pale branching scar under her unruly hair for a moment as Charlie’s green eyes widened. His mouth quirked up at the side, a rueful sort of half smile. “Still, if Harry Potter herself knows better... maybe there’s a chance.” he added, offering Rhiannon his hand.

Rhiannon, distracted by the gut-wrenchingly unpleasant sensation of wrongness her old name brought, magnified now that she had stopped pretending to own it in any capacity, took a moment to realise that Charlie meant for her to shake his hand. Awkwardly she did so, internally cringing at the clumsy feeling of the contact – why, why did people pick that as their greeting? - before she bit her lip and took a deep breath. “Rrrr-Rh-Rhiannon,” she mumbled, the soft syllables of her name blurring into one another. Rhi coughed and tried again. “Rhiannon. Not Harry.”

A brief flicker of surprise crossed the young man’s scarred face, before it resolved into a genuine smile. “Well, Rhiannon – regardless. You’re a refreshing sort of surprise.” Charlie replied, disengaging his hand and grinning as Rhi wiped hers on her jumper and shook it, to remove the last of the sensation. “Hagrid – I’ll owl you when we’re back to the sanctuary, yeah?” he said, dusting his hands on his coat as he carefully took the harness from Hagrid, clipping it into the simple cross-shoulder harness he wore already. “And Ron – enjoy detention, know you earned it good.” Charlie added, the five of them heartened by the weak but affectionate lick Fluffy slimed Hagrid’s face with in parting. He waved to them and then with a motion as if he drew a hole in the air itself, he turned and – _crack -_ he and Fluffy vanished.

Wearily, Hagrid sank to his knees, strangled sobs shaking his massive form. Wordlessly, Ron hugged him, and the two girls let them the space they needed for a moment. That moment passed and Hagrid stood, brushing Ron aside with a gruff murmur. “Best be getting back,” he mumbled and gestured to the three, unsteadily shepherding them back up the hill towards the outer grounds wall.

The sparse grass was damp and dewy under Rhiannon’s feet and her school shoes soaked as she trudged up the hill in step with Hermione and a few behind Ron. Her mind was too tired now to wander, she’d worried as far as getting Fluffy out – now that he was, the idea of events outside of their mission was one too slippery for Rhi to grasp and so she plodded along with head down and eyes heavy, only semi-aware of her surroundings.

In such a manner, Rhiannon was slow to respond as Ron halted suddenly and collided with him. She blinked and shook her head, squinting as a lamp sputtered to life in the darkness beneath the archway entry to Hogwarts’ grounds and her heart sank to her sodden shoes. Hermione’s clammy hand crept into hers and they all were very quiet under the high moon as they found themselves facing a livid Professor Dumbledore, a truculent Argus Filch and a miserable Faye Dunbarr.

___________________________________________________________________

Having been caught out, Rhiannon found herself and her friends facing term-time detention in addition to their holiday punishment. Faye had failed to divert Peeves entirely and while she had kept him at bay long enough for Rhiannon and the others to get out of the castle with Fluffy, she had been discovered out of bed by Filch and the entire haphazard plot unraveled. Headmaster Dumbledore was, to a word, furious – a sort of unfamiliarly cold and calculating anger that set Rhiannon on edge, but as several days passed with no word from Hagrid she became more and more worried that whatever Dumbledore set in the way of punishments for the students, he was in for worse.

As it was a second transgression by Rhiannon and her three friends, the four of them found themselves facing semi-regular detention at least two nights a week, menial labour and stocktaking for the most part. Between them they had lost two hundred points for Gryffindor, and Rhiannon’s earlier popularity had well and truly worn away as their housemates had nothing but muttered resentment for the four of them as they passed in hallways – save for Neville and Parvati of course, who felt alienated by the treatment of their peers.

Rarely were all four troublemakers assigned to work together, and so it was that Rhiannon found herself partnered with Ron late on the Wednesday 31 st  of October in the dungeons of Hogwarts. To add insult to injury their pets had been confiscated – Ron’s rat Scabbers, Callie and Faye’s uniquely disruptive short-eared owl Una were to reside with Hagrid until the Christmas holidays, meaning they didn’t even have company to ease their bad temper as they scrubbed at the filthy cobbles of the boys’ bathroom while sounds of the Samhain feast drifted down from the Great Hall some distance above. This particular assignment seemed too pointed to Rhiannon and she worked in mutinous silence, a resentful torrent of complaint running unvoiced through her head.

Rhiannon was too preoccupied by her ill temper to notice the sudden commotion from upstairs and the cessation of the celebratory chatter, but Ron was not and he caught her arm, his thin face tense with worry. Immediately he released her, holding up his hands defensively as Rhi flinched away and glared at him, but he put a finger to his lips and shook his head as she opened her mouth to snap at him. Dragged now from her sullen sinkhole, Rhiannon could hear why – gone was the cheering and laughter, replaced with a low, pensive rumble and dull murmurings as if the foundation of the castle itself sulked. This illusion was broken as the rumbling drew near, now identifiable as a sort of heavy leathery thunder on the dungeon floors. Ron and Rhiannon shrank back as whatever it was halted, near – too near, the sound joined now by a low growl and the heavy breathing of something very, very large. Ron waved his hands urgently, Rhi didn’t respond – she was stiff with fear, hazel eyes wide. Her friend seized her again by the shoulder and this time she didn’t fight him as they hurried into a corner, helplessly casting around for a way out – none. There was none, whatever it was it stood on the other side of the only exit.

‘Whatever it was’ was a question answered all too quickly as it’s breathing hitched, sniffed – and the bathroom door creaked in protest as the creature on the other side shoved it, a low growl of frustration resonating in the still air as the door held. The creaking ceased abruptly as the creature shifted and Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief. Ron shook his head and held his hand over her mouth now – a good thing, as with a splintering _crash_ the door caved inward under a terrible blow, revealing the creature that threatened them as it stooped beneath the doorway and lumbered in, a helpless shriek escaping Rhiannon’s throat as part of the doorway arch crumbled against its’ too wide shoulders, the creature now standing upright in the dimly lit bathroom and taking in its’ surroundings.

It stood well over twelve feet tall, skin a dull grey and pitted like ancient granite stretched over heavy, irregular bones and rough muscle. It’s features were crude, like to a statue partially carved and left unfinished, and it swayed as if the upright position was unnatural to it. That theory was confirmed as it dropped forward, resting on it’s knuckles and baring blunt, chipped teeth in a bestial snarl. A rank stench flooded over Ron and Rhiannon at the action, the creature’s breath reeked of rotten meat and bitter herbs. Rhiannon turned wide eyes upward on Ron, a soft keen of terror rising in her throat – since she had joined the magical world she had seen sick, and strange, and horrifying – but nothing that so fully matched the common perception of _monster_. “T-tr-tttt-troll,” she whispered as Ron adjusted his hand over her mouth.

That unthinking sound was their undoing and with a roar the troll lunged for their position, a previously-unseen club shattering the sinks in its’ rush. Wide-set muddy yellow eyes roved through the rubble, squinting in the light of the crude chandelier and hollow with hunger. Rhiannon and Ron scrabbled backwards, slipping sideways into a damaged cubicle in a vain effort to hide. Rhiannon’s blood rushed in her ears, sweeping away vision in a great black wave and she sobbed soundlessly, her mind crowded with disjointed images and memory and pain – never, for all the Dursleys’ beating, had she been so certain she was about to die.

A high voice carried over the hungry growl of the troll as someone else entered the bathroom. “Oi! OI, PEABRAIN!” someone cried, the accent was familiar even in Rhiannon’s panic – heavy inner Hebrides scottish. Faye. Rhiannon choked on a startled laugh, her imminent death averted for the moment. The looming presence of the troll withdrew, snarling, and someone – presumably Faye – bashed something metal against the wall of the dungeon bathroom, evidently the troll wasn’t far enough away. Ron squeezed her shoulders and away, he let go only for Rhiannon to grab clumsily for the sleeve of his jersey. That was enough of a clue and he swore, then again as that must have attracted the troll’s attention. He took hold of Rhiannon’s hand, his palms rough and sweaty with fear, and pulled her flat to the ground. “Gonna crawl,” he hissed. Tentatively Rhiannon put up a hand to feel for the bottom of the stall, finding the flimsy jib-board edged with aluminium. There was about a foot of space between that and the floor and she flattened herself to the damp stone, wincing at the mildewy reek of it. Ron pushed her through ahead, following her through a foot or so behind, both hampered by Rhiannon’s death grip on his right hand.

Faye kept up a string of taunts, and Rhiannon shrank into the back wall of the bathroom in a futile effort to evade a terrible crash. She feared their paltry shelter would be swept out from above them as the troll swung at Faye, Rhiannon guessed numbly that the way it moved supported on feet and knuckles, it must have made a round haymaker swing and clipped the top of the cubicles in an arc as it struck at their rescuer. _Rescuers_ , she amended as a shrill scream sounded over the dry crunch of particleboard stalls. Not a frightened one, that was Hermione too angry to speak, by the sounds of it she’d hurled something at the troll.

Ron pulled Rhiannon to her feet, she shifted her grip to his elbow and fumbled for her wand as she leaned in the corner formed by the stone walls – they’d crossed the room, they weren’t dead, she had a wand. Ron made a muttered attempt at protest, Rhi stepped on his foot and shook her head grimly. Another yell, this time from Faye again, and Ron lunged forward, towing Rhiannon with him out into the open space. She still clutched at his elbow, tilting her head vainly to figure out where the troll was in relation to them. By her guess, the two pairs and the troll formed a sort of triangle across the space. Ron snatched awkwardly for his wand, but they were at an impasse – he and Rhiannon had a clear shot to the door, but the troll would intercept them before they could.

The impasse was broken by Hermione. _“Titillaudia!”_ she yelled, stuttering at first try but finding her voice. Rhiannon didn’t hear the rush of the hex, but she _did_ hear it’s effect as the troll groaned, dull thuds sounding in the enclosed space as it attempted to clutch its’ ears to dampen the effects of Hermione’s Twitchy-Ears hex. The creature grew increasingly distressed and Rhiannon quivered on the spot, fighting the urge to flee, knowing that would be fatal. Her vision prickled, pale sparkles swimming before her, revealing snatches of imagery through the lightless curtain. The troll’s frantic clutches ceased and it roared, enraged now, and lunged for Hermione and Faye.

Rhiannon didn’t think, didn’t consider her only guide on the scene were scattered flickers of input. She broke free of Ron and charged the troll, stumbling a step and colliding with its’ heavy, pitted leg. _“L-Lumos!”_ she yelled, remembering dimly as the troll swung toward her that it had been sensitive to the light. She didn’t have to see to feel the pulse in her wand, but her idea fell short somewhat – instead of simply crushing her, the troll snatched at her as it tried vainly to dull the light, its’ club discarded. The creature caught Rhiannon in one of its’ massive hands and she shrieked, flailing wildly in its’ grasp. The toe of her shoe caught it in the nerve cluster of the wrist and its’ grip weakened, sending her sliding down its’ arm to its’ shoulder where she clung for life to the matted tangle of it’s hair. Behind her she dimly registered Ron’s roar of fury, Faye’s string of ineffective hexes, Hermione soundless, she swayed and staggered for balance.

Too easily this would have been an end. It should have by all rights. But Ron seized on the club that had been discarded, and his yelled _“Wingardium Leviosa!”_ stabbed at Rhiannon’s ears. She shrank away a moment too late as the club shot upwards, bashing the troll beneath its’ heavy jaw. It staggered and swayed, a low moan escaping it as it caught itself again the wall. Slowly, then all at once it pitched sideways and Rhiannon was thrown against the side of its’ head as they both crashed to the ground with a dizzying crunch and a sick give beneath Rhiannon’s outstretched wand hand.

Rhiannon groaned and stood, easing aching knees and bruised ribs. She went to pull away and found her wand stuck. Revolted she let it go and staggered back, her vision now mixed sight and blankness like the snow report on a broken television, and she would have kept going had Ron not caught her. Her breathing crowded her senses and she doubled over, fighting a wave of nausea that threatened to swamp her.

Someone removed Rhiannon’s wand with an unpleasant sucking sound, and the troll stirred uncomfortably. Faye – it must have been she who handled the wand – snorted, and Rhi tilted her head at the sound of a contextless rustle of fabric. “Wipin’ it on my kilt,” Faye explained cheerfully. She crossed the room and returned the wand to Rhiannon’s hand, closing the other girl’s shaking hands around it. “You managed to get the fucker lodged in ‘is ear, no wonder he’s out for the count.”

The image was so unpleasant and so strange, Rhiannon burst out laughing, and she leaned on Ron’s shoulder for a good long time as the gravity of the situation sank in. They’d just about died, until Ron knocked out a troll with the same uppercut he’d given _himself_ in class more than once attempting to learn that charm and then she’d gotten her wand stuck in it’s ear. Well, now it really was a used tool, she thought, wiping helpless tears from her eyes.

Her laughter covered the approaching hurried footsteps, and Rhiannon was startled to suddenly find the bathroom crowded and the clatter of hard-soled shoes fading into the walls as whoever it was stilled.

“ _Harry Potter-”_ someone – Dumbledore, Rhiannon realised with a groan, thundered by way of introduction only to be cut off with an indignant yelp as someone else elbowed their way forward. Rhiannon and her three friends found themselves squashed together in a scratchy hug for a moment before they were released. “ _Rhiannon_ , mercy look at the lot of ye’s.” That could only be Minerva McGonagall, and Rhi felt a surge of relief – Dumbledore was always more restrained with her present. “Why is it, when there’s trouble, it’s always you lot? Ingólfur, take them up to Poppy, please – before the walls fall down or something.” she added, exasperation in her tone. Rhiannon, pretty much stuck like glue to Ron and Hermione with Faye in tow, let herself be shepherded out of the crumbling room and towards the dungeon stairs. Caneless and clumsy on them, she overheard Minerva and Dumbledore beginning to argue.

“Honestly Dumbledore, I really do wonder sometimes – leaving four first years split up in the dungeons while the rest of us are feasting? You’re as good as asking for something like this. You watch yourself...” she lost the rest in the ever-dizzying clamour of shoes on stone as they began to climb the stairs in earnest, sinking slowly into shock now buoyed by the warmth of Professor McGonagall’s words – _someone believed her._ Someone else saw. And she was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I wrote a chapter plan and I stuck to it and it's a non-horrible word count. I think this is some kind of record.  
> I TOLD you I'm not leavin fluffy there! That's not nice.  
> I want to say a massive thankyou to AdmiralPegasus, the author of Kaleidoscopic Grangers, whose work inspired me to get on with my own. If you like mine, you'll like hers. She also has a discord server - https://discord.gg/mGfb7U48mc - and I cannot overstate how absolutely invaluable the support from there has been. Thanks for sticking with me this far <3


	16. Bucking Broomsticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon and her friends have a better time at school following the incident with the troll, and soon it is the end of term. Rhiannon plays a Quidditch match against Slytherin at the end of term, with mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this thing was like pulling teeth. It's not great. My brain REALLY wants to write the Christmas fluff and was basically just mutinying about being asked to do anything else. But I got the fucker out of the way and now I can move on to the christmas fluff chapter - the thing my brain *actually* wants to write. It's a little clumsy and I apologise for that. BUT it's over and it's updated and now we can move forward!  
> I really hate writing Quidditch. I really hate writing sports. I also think that the established way of Quidditch being played is ridiculous. So I recognise canon has been established to make the Seeker an overpowered position and regarding how often they play, but as someone who actually played school sports I think that's foolish canon and I have elected to ignore it. It's school sports. They run every weekend. And people actually get sent off for fouls. And the snitch is worth fifty points so the seeker's not some kinda one man army bullshit that makes the rest of the game worthless. Bad writing it was to make it that. Anyway, complaints aside: screw canon it's mine now, the chapter is clumsy but I'm freed up to get on with shit now so ENJOY. Or don't. Up to you really.  
> WAIT HANG ON LAST THING:  
> You will notice that in between updates 15 and 16, the chapters got named! Sometimes I shove busywork to the side and that's one thing I shoved, so I spent a good day or so trying to name the fuckers. Some I knew what I was going to call them - my favourite lyrics from the song Rhiannon, for instance. That was easy. Others are references to songs. Once "A Whole New World" occurred to me I couldn't get that pissant earworm out of my brain, so you deserve to suffer too. ANyway. Now it really IS time to go.

Rhiannon’s school life improved following the troll incident. Someone – presumably Minerva McGonagall – intervened and had their pets returned, much to their relief. Rhiannon had struggled to sleep without the familiar presence of her cranky, rapidly growing cat and she’d grown accustomed to the peaceful night-time chirruping hum of Faye’s owl, who had at first been consigned to the Owlery at the start of term but soon been allowed permission to stay in the dormitories with the other pets – Faye had been upfront that the owl was accustomed to sleeping beside the bed, and apparently it was adamant about doing so.

One interaction in particular stuck out to Rhiannon following the encounter with the troll, and that was one with Professor Snape. The lank-haired professor was as bitter and bad-tempered as ever, but his usual jibes darkened in tone after their escape. They’d as good as slain a troll, perhaps they thought his class a waste of time – an unfair criticism, given Rhiannon, Hermione and even Neville’s studious tendencies, but much of what Snape had to say these days usually fell into that designation anyway.

During one particularly unpleasant lesson on a Wednesday afternoon, he as usual held up Rhiannon and Hermione as examples of poor potioncraft – they stuck too closely to the formula, showed no creativity or flair, their potions were grey to hear him describe it. One could argue that a teaching style like Snape’s didn’t exactly foster creativity or flair in his students and that a good grasp of theory could only be a good thing at such an early level – in fact, Faye did try to argue this at one point, to the immediate loss of house points for ‘cheek’. This behaviour was no different from usual, but as he leaned in to vanish Rhiannon’s potion his robe slipped, revealing an ugly blackened welt snaking up his neck from somewhere on his chest. As he extended his wand hand, Rhiannon’s eyes were drawn to similar bruised weals on his forearm. The professor must have noticed her staring, as he retracted his hand quickly, almost scattering potion ingredients across the table. “Clean up and get out,” he snapped roughly. And that was that. The memory would have been discarded entirely had Neville not reacted so strongly when Hermione described the welts after class, frantically flipping through pages of a Herbology textbook and waving distractedly to Rhiannon and Hermione, wordlessly imploring them – _stop, wait, got it -_ to hold on until he found what he’d evidently remembered. He held his wand upside down and circled around a diagram in the Herbology textbook with the handle end of it. Hermione, Rhiannon and the others looked at Neville and then at eachother blankly. “ _Devil’s snare!”_ Neville repeated out loud, tapping the textbook diagram with his wand impatiently. “S-Snape,” he added, now drumming his wand against the top of the book in a distracting manner. The girls looked at it more closely, it was evidently important to Neville – wait. They’d been looking at the picture of the plant, not the effects Neville was trying to point out to them. “No wonder he was in a mood. He got on the wrong side of some of that,” Hermione murmured, a line forming between her eyebrows as she considered it. For some reason or other, Professor had gotten on the wrong side of Devil’s Snare, and it had happened around Halloween.

With no real context for it other than a general sense it was _important_ , Rhiannon shoved the realisation to the back of her mind and returned to her studies with a stubborn will. And so November slid seamlessly into December and the days grew steadily colder. Her participation in Quidditch matches was limited by detentions, but she had been granted a reprieve for the final match of the term. Sunday the 15  th  of December approached rapidly, and Wood had ramped up practices to twice a week in preparation.

Rhiannon expected the tougher schedule to stress her, but if anything it kept her more focused, more reminded of her allies as the impending match against Slytherin drew nearer. Her glasses were swapped for specialised goggles and a low face-mask added to the team’s regular uniform, and finally Rhi relented and traded in her fingerless gloves for a full set lest she freeze her hands to the broom in training. The winter gear felt unpleasantly restrictive and Rhiannon struggled to stay focused with so much of her usual sensory input missing – a bout of pain and sudden deafness in practice had Rhiannon flying with ear-muffs on as well, and she felt unpleasantly cut off from the rest of the world.

Still, even the discomfort of gloves and earmuffs was nothing compared to the competitive rush of the wizarding sport, and the Gryffindor team felt a savage sort of glee at the prospect of a match against Slytherin. They’d been slated to face the Slytherins back in November but the match had been cancelled due to bad weather, so while they’d played eachother a few times before by now, Slytherin’s attitude since the awful first friendly had a few of the Gryffindors itching for payback.

So it was a tense air of competition that carried Rhiannon into the final week of the first term, and she felt unduly distracted from her academics as the game drew closer. Friday afternoon even Professor Binns gave up and sent them away early, and Professor Sinistra cancelled their Astronomy class. On the Saturday, Professor Sprout chased them out of the greenhouse with a broom and so most of the class spent an extra hour with the magical creatures that day, with very little actual study done. And so by the time Sunday came, the students were an unfortunate combination of apprehensive and well-rested; and the stands hummed as Rhiannon stood with her team-mates beneath them.

This time it was not Oliver Wood but a sixth-year girl named Lacey Oliver who gave the order to mount up, and this time Rhiannon’s first name was printed on the back of her jersey alongside her surname. Her Nimbus was painfully cold in her grip, present as a dull ache even through her gloves and Rhiannon reluctantly pulled her scarf up to cover her mouth, wincing at the unpleasantly sweaty sensation of her breath on her own face as she anchored the scarf under the nose of her goggles. Her earmuffs dulled the quidditch team’s apprehensive chatter and Oliver Wood’s anxious muttering as he paced beside a bench against the wall, and as in her first match she almost missed the starting horn as the gate up from the team room was lifted and the teams released. Unlike her first game, the team they faced wore green, and Rhiannon wasn’t entirely convinced that she imagined a sort of collecting nastiness about them – far unlike the good-natured rapport she had formed with Ravenclaw’s Seeker.

The differences became more marked as Rhiannon faced her opponent in the wait for the game to start in full. Whereas she and Sorcha Cho had been relatively evenly matched in size and experience, here Rhiannon was reminded uncomfortably that she was the youngest player in a century. The Slytherin Seeker opposite her was sixth or seventh – seventh, she remembered, catching sight of the name on his cloak as the teams circled eachother around the pitch in a display Rhiannon didn’t totally understand, half some kind of animalian sizing each other up, half for the crowd’s benefit. Terrence Higgs was wiry and far taller even on his broomstick than Rhiannon, and he grinned mockingly at Rhiannon as they passed eachother, making a crude gesture to his crotch. Somewhere to her right, Rhi caught the tail end of a growled curse – presumably a Weasley twin had caught sight of that, and Rhiannon’s discomfort eased – her team had her back. Waiting for the whistle, she studied the rest of the Slytherin team. One of the Chasers, Adrianne Pucey, had dyed her long hair lime green since Rhiannon saw her last, and she too favoured Rhi with a taunting grin when she caught the younger girl staring.

Rhiannon was saved any further embarrassment by a shrill whistle blast, and she shot backwards on instinct to avoid the Bludgers as they rocketed skyward, then taking up her usual position high above the game to scan for the Snitch. The grey weather made that difficult, the heavy sensation of an impending snowfall pressing on Rhiannon’s already limited senses. Several times in her scans she caught sight of the Snitch for a scant moment, only to lose it again. Thanks to her earmuffs any comment from the spectators was muffled, but she knew the Weasley twins’ friend Lee Jordan was commentating – if anything went wrong, at least she’d not be kicked while she was down.

Initially the game went fine, with Rhiannon even assisting in a few Quaffle passes to score. Gryffindor were about sixty points up, so when Rhiannon spotted the Snitch she dove for it. Immediately the Slytherin seeker was on her. Her superior broom kept her clear of him and she closed on it, the game would be over, she could go inside to the warm fire and – _WHAM._   
Fuck.

Rhiannon’s earmuffs were knocked askew and her goggles rammed into her face as she collided with someone’s green-clad shoulder, and the roar of the enraged crowd reached rose in her ears. She reeled back, knocking into Terrence before she got clear, desperately trying to assess the situation – she’d crashed directly into the Slytherin captain, Marcus Flint. No, not crashed, she guessed from his malicious smirk – he’d blocked her. Someone was yelling – that she could definitely hear, now that her ears were no longer sealed. “After that open and disgusting FOUL -” she caught briefly, apparently the commentator was raging, and a crookedly amused smile touched Rhi’s lips. It was nice to know someone was on her side.

With a resentful glare at the Slytherins Rhiannon rearranged her earmuffs and climbed back into the sky from where she had drawn dangerously low over the stands. She glanced down as she did and waved to her friends as she passed over their heads, a sloppy hand signal in that for Neville – _fine_. Rhi was warmed by their silent-to-her cheers, and she laughed out loud at Faye and Ron’s messily-printed banner. They’d spelled her name wrong, but since the first game she’d lost a lot of her single-minded focus and their support kept her calm instead. A shuffle of movement indicated the Slytherin chaser who’d fouled her being reprimanded, and Gryffindor were awarded a free shot at the goal hoops as penalty. She guessed Marcus would be sent to the bench if he fouled another player, he’d been carded a few times similarly in past matches, and his substitute Jessamy Gladden was significantly fairer to play against.

Rhiannon was diverted from her musing by a mutinous wobble from the broomstick beneath her and she slowed to inspect it more closely. Something about her connection to it felt off, stilted, as if it was blocked somehow. The broomstick steadied, but Rhiannon’s nerves rose – it didn’t feel _steady_ steady, it felt dead and trapped. Her awareness of the game started to drop as her anxiety grew, and she barely managed to drag her resisting broom through a roll to avoid a Bludger. Something was very, very wrong – had it been damaged in the collision? Rhi descended slowly, she felt tense and unsafe and she wanted to get out of the sky.

But luck wasn’t with Rhi this time, and her broom lurched dizzyingly when they were about ten metres above the top of the viewing stands. She didn’t have a sensation to compare it to, but it felt as if a very strong hand had gripped it and was attempting to bodily shake her free. Another hitch in its’ rhythm and the broomstick bucked again, throwing Rhiannon forward to hug it desperately, the harness pressing into her chest uncomfortably as she rapidly lost altitude. Now the broomstick was pitching and see-sawing wildly, with no discernible pattern to the movements and Rhiannon lost track of the game around her, desperate to remain mounted. Another buck had her face collide with the handle, knocking her earmuffs free and as they tumbled to the ground she groaned and covered her ears against the onrush of biting cold wind and the horrified babble of the crowd, knocking her goggles off her face to bunch up in her scarf under her chin.

That instinctive motion was her undoing. Another buck of the broomstick knocked Rhiannon clear off and she hung, suspended from her harness, clutching at the thrashing Nimbus with one hand as she desperately cast around her for something, anything, to save the situation. The Nimbus’ downward drift had ceased, leaving Rhiannon some ten feet above the ground, staring around into the stands. The broomstick lurched in her grip and she curled in on herself, still hanging from one hand. The crowd was quiet, hundreds of gaping faces turned to her – but not all. A cluster of tangled activity caught her eye up in one of the stand towers. She couldn’t make out individual figures, only a blur of black dotted with red, green, blue and gold, and the hazy ovals of staring faces that smudged and blended together in the flat snow-day light. Blinding pain flashed through the scar on her forehead and she choked on blood in her mouth, fighting the urge to go limp, to give up.

She was Rhiannon Hestia Potter. She wasn’t giving up for a damn bucking broomstick and a headache. Grimly, she uncurled herself, taking some of her weight off of the harness and glaring at the now deceitfully still broomstick that she hung from. Rhi spat, grimacing at the copper taste, and threw up her other hand to grasp the broomstick. Stubbornly she pulled herself back on and gazed around her at the bleak-coloured blur of the pitch. The crowd was restless and quiet, even commentator Lee Jordan had fallen silent. Acting on muscle memory she fished her goggles out of her tangled scarf and with one hand still firmly on the handle of the untrustworthy broomstick Rhi returned them to her face. Immediately the blur solidified into focus and she shook her head to clear it. Another glance into the stands set her scar pulsing and she grimaced, wiping her mouth with her sleeve as bile rose in her throat. She cast around for her friends and the banner, looking to ground herself – no luck. It stood in the corner of a tower box abandoned, Ron and Faye nowhere to be seen.

Nothing to be done. Rhi set her jaw and shook her head, knocking the heel of her palm against her temple a couple of times. Grimly she nodded to the silent commentator, and the young man grinned and pumped his fist. “YES! Gryffindor seeker Rhiannon Potter is back in the air following what looked to be a nasty spot of broom-hexing – ref, you checking that? Nobody? Gryffindor is down sixty to ninety, but with their Seeker back in the game they have a shot! Let’s hear it for first-year seeker Rhiannon Potter, the Girl Who Lived!” Lee hollered, encouraging the crowd to cheer their support as slowly Rhi climbed back into the sky, her cheeks flushed and ears burning in the bitter cold.

The wind picked up and Rhiannon squinted, straining for a glimpse of the Snitch through the cluster of players below. Nothing, nothing – there. A brief glimmer of gold in the gray flat light, high over the game. Her opponent Terrence had already spotted it and with only a moment’s hesitation she flattened herself to the reticent broomstick and urged it forward, wincing at the chill bite of the wind in her ears as she closed on the Snitch. By now familiar with the curtain that encroached on her vision as she drew nearer, Rhiannon ignored the claustrophobic sensation and gritted her teeth as she jostled against the opposing Seeker. He might have uttered something mocking, she didn’t notice – steadily she drew ahead, their brooms closer matched than she usually had to worry about. She missed and swore, fumbling for it, lurching forward and casting around for it and – _whoomp_. Something smacked her directly in the open mouth. It was reflex to snap her mouth closed and she spluttered at the sensation as her teeth met metal. _Bad feel bad feel bad feel!_ She thought, coughing and choking and clawing at her mouth with one hand trying to fish the thrashing thing out. Rhiannon spat the offending thing into her palm and held it up, wings now a little bent. The Golden Snitch.

Its’ bent wings fluttering limply in her grasp, Rhiannon held the Snitch aloft and pulled up, away from the other Seeker, a broad grin spreading across her face even as the wind picked up and tore at her robes. Dimly she took in the crowd’s surprise, then hunched forward and clapped her hands over her ears as the cheers began. Previously the spectators had been muted, shocked following her fall – no more. As Rhiannon descended to the pitch below, she caught sight of her friends, hollering elatedly. Lee Jordan’s narration was lost in the cheering mass, and as soon as Rhiannon’s booted feet touched down on the soggy pitch she was mobbed by her team-mates. Led by an overjoyed Oliver Wood they surrounded her, Oliver opened his arms wide to gesture around them. “Look at that! Youngest player in a century, and we’re first in the running at the end of the first term, one-ten to ninety! Well done kid, _well done –_ we lost points while you were out of commission there but you recovered, never been so proud,” he congratulated her, grinning broadly. Numbly Rhiannon shook her head and dashed water from her face as she detached herself from her Nimbus, she thought her cheeks would split from smiling and she spun in place and flapped delightedly for a moment, letting out an elated shriek before she recomposed herself, sheepishly straightening out her robes. Someone ruffled her hair from behind and she reflexively swatted out with her broomstick, to a resulting groan and a round of laughter.

Wood’s face sobered, and he held out a hand. “Hooch told me to get that off you, it’s clearly been hexed. While it was probably an in-the-moment thing, it could still have lasting effects and it was a damn near thing you didn’t get hurt as it is.” Rhiannon realised belated that the captain meant her broomstick. It was a wrench to hand it over but he was right – something had gone seriously wrong in the air today. It had only thrown off her game, but it could well have been more serious – and following her encounter with the troll on Halloween, Rhiannon had a fairly good grasp of how serious magical mishaps could get.  
So begrudgingly the broomstick was handed over, and Rhiannon left to celebrate and drift back to the castle with the rest of Gryffindor house as her friends joined her from the stands.  
___________________________________________________________________

Following the most exciting Quidditch game of the term, Rhiannon and her friends stayed up late into the night talking about it, all cosy on couches and beanbags around the central common room fire. Unbeknownst to Rhi at the time, Hermione had spotted Professor Snape acting suspiciously – for a hex like the one that had been placed on her broom, sustained eye-contact and continuous incantation was required, and Hermione thought it looked as if he’d been doing that. She had conveyed that to Ron and Faye, who had gone to distract him – that was when Rhiannon had seen their cast-aside banner. Whether Snape had been the culprit or not, the kerfuffle her friends instigated had been enough to break the focus and Rhiannon had been able to continue and then complete the game.

Neville shyly pointed out that it looked like the hex on her broom was being interfered with, and that sparked its’ own avenue of distraction – the theory certainly would explain why the broom hadn’t simply thrown Rhiannon outright. But eventually even this train of thought was exhausted and the Gryffindors fell to recounting the exciting moments of the match. Rhiannon’s disgusted description of the feeling of catching a filthy, freezing, gold-plated ball in her mouth drew a round of laughter even from the older students. Eventually the rest of their housemates drifted away, and Rhiannon’s eyes grew heavy as she flipped through the history text she was reading. Hermione settled against the arm of the couch and Rhiannon gradually shifted so that she rested her head sideways on her taller friend’s shoulder to read. More gradually still, the group of first-years fell asleep as the fire grew low and the late night drifted into very early morning, and an air of contentment settled over them like a weighted blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it was kinda clumsy. I tried. I hate overview writing, and I hate writing sports. BUT it's over with now and I'll get started on chapter 17 tomorrow! Because it is 12:25am and this fic has sprouted *1.5k* hits here since I last checked the hit count and that is a little bit scary so I'm electing to ignore it. Good night. Fluff planned for chapter 17, my brain wants to write it so bad. Also, allow me to reiterate how terrible I am at naming chapters. Like wow. I'm horrible at it.


	17. Yuletide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon and her friends serve the first half of their holiday detentions, and Rhiannon has her first really good Christmas with the other Gryffindors who stayed at school for the holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO I DID IT. It took a few days, I've not been very well, but I DID it. And I have been looking forward to it because it's pure fluff. Not much to say other than holy shit, 2k hits and with the addition of this chapter we just passed 65k words. Night all - enjoy.

When Rhiannon and the others awoke the next morning, the fire had been freshly stoked and someone had drawn blankets over their sleeping forms. Some had departed what had become the impromptu first-year sleepover party, leaving a small pile of notes behind in one unoccupied armchair. Left behind with Rhiannon was Hermione, Ron and Faye; Neville and Parvati had left early to visit their families, having been uninvolved in any of the events that had left the remaining four facing detention. Rhi rubbed sleep from her eyes and grinned wryly, it seemed that already they were starting to make a reputation for themselves.

A clatter of shoes on the stairs behind her startled Rhiannon into proper wakefulness, and she jerked upright and curled against the arm of the couch, dragging blankets with her as someone rushed down the stairs. Two someones, she amended, spotting the Weasley twins. “Potter!” George crowed gleefully. “And little brother! Oi, Ronniekins, what did you _do?_ Mum’s goin’ to be raging just you wait, she wanted us all home for Christmas now it’s Charlie’s first one away.” he carried on, and he and Fred tumbled the rest of the way down the stairs to join them on the couches.

Ron’s ears turned red and he covered his head with the blanket. “She _is_ ,” he groaned, curling up under the blanket as if to avoid dealing with the issue. Then he sat up abruptly, stretching and yawning. “Hey, what did _you_ do to get holiday detention?” he asked.  
Fred laughed. “Ginny wrote us saying she missed us at home and we got caught mailing her a toilet seat for laughs like we said we would. Seemed like a good idea at the time and all. Oliver’s in for the holidays too – from that time with Prentiss. Prentiss’ stuck here too apparently, but McGonagall says he’ll be doin’ time with her, keep him away and all. Makes sense now we know you lot are in here – what did you even _do?_ We know you lost a buncha points and all but that’s kind of it.” he explained, then chattered on good-naturedly. At the repetition of the question, Rhiannon went red and ducked her head into the blankets shamefaced.

George reached over and ruffled her hair, leaning down to inquire again but was foiled by a pillow to the face from Ron who could see how uncomfortable the crowding was making Rhiannon. “I-I-I, I, well, w-we, we found a three-headed dog in the out-of-b-b-bounds corridor and it was r-really sick and neglected, and w-we got caught coming back, after we helped Hagrid smuggle him out. Um. Charlie? Charlie helped.” she explained sheepishly, her face muffled by the blanket. Fred and George guffawed, and one of them clapped her on the shoulder. “Plus me an’ Faye got picked up duelling Draco Malfoy,” Ron piped up. He was as red as Rhiannon, but there was a certain pride to his words.

Fred slugged him with a pillow, and from that ensued an outbreak of rough-housing that had Rhiannon shrinking back into the couch. As soon as Hermione, now also awake, noticed Rhiannon’s distress she snatched up one of their textbooks from the night before and whacked the twins and Ron around the shoulders in quick succession. When they protested, she gestured to Rhiannon and glared at them, raising the book again threateningly. They backed off, and the twins settled themselves on separate couches while Ron returned to his armchair. “We’ll wait up for you lot, and head on down to breakfast together yeah? May as well face whatever McGonagall’s got planned for us together, yeah?” George offered, and with a grateful nod Rhiannon scurried off upstairs followed by Faye and Hermione.

‘Whatever McGonagall had planned’ turned out to be work. The group of troublemakers, joined by Lee Jordan and a handful of other older Gryffindors, found themselves split up and set to task assisting the various professors and staff of the castle. Rhiannon and Hermione worked best in quiet, so they were sent to help Madam Pince in the library, reshelving misplaced books, taking stock and placing orders for anything missing from the shelves. The two of them were easily sidetracked, but Madam Pince proved a patient taskmistress outside of school hours for anyone who cared about books and was fairly lenient on them, so the tedium of repetitive labour was balanced by learning about everything they picked up. Rhiannon was fascinated by the books on alchemy and the natural sciences of old magic long buried, while Hermione was more interested in the metaphysics and theory of magic, especially transfiguration. Between the two of them, they covered a significant portion of the library tasks over the first week of their holiday. Occasionally they were rotated out or others brought in to help, but that never lasted long and they soon found a routine that worked for them. Rhiannon eagerly pored over book after book, delaying putting them away as long as she could. Madam Pince feigned ignorance, and so on Christmas Eve, a Monday, Rhiannon and Hermione were curled up together on a beanbag in the corner of the library reading about alchemical advances during the Renaissance. Just as that period had had fantastic advances in technology and medicine for non-magical society, so even the insular magical community had advanced especially with closer relations to nearby European nations forming around the same time. Alchemy became less a myth and more a genuine field of study, and both girls were entranced by the historical recounting of the discoveries of the time. One in particular stood out to them – Nicolas Flamel, a French alchemist born near the beginning of the Renaissance period. Flamel and his wife Perenelle ran a book-shop as a hobby and front, while making some of the greatest changes to magical science of the time. According to the text, which was on famous wizards and technological advancement of the period, Flamel and his wife were the first and only known arcanists to successfully create the Philosopher’s Stone, a mythical substance said to grant eternal life and powers of physical transmutation, most famously lead into gold, to its’ holder. The Flamels disappeared from nonmagical society in 1416 to escape scrutiny for their suspicious longevity, and apparently at least at the time of the book’s publishing (some forty years ago) they still lived in an insular underground magical community in their home nation of France.

Buoyed by the wealth of new information, Rhiannon almost didn’t notice the arrival of Christmas day in full. She woke early on December 25th intending to get on with another day of stocktake, only to be entirely sidetracked by the change to the half-deserted dormitory. Something smelled odd, and was that – holly? She shivered and awkwardly drew her dressing gown closer around her with one half-free hand, the chill of the wooden floor reaching through her thin woollen slippers as she padded downstairs, curious to see what was going on. Rhi blinked aside sleep and hugged Callie closer to her chest, settling down on one of the common room couches that had been dragged nearer to the central fireplace. Eventually her eyes adjusted to wakefulness, and she stared around in wonder at the suddenly changed common room. Despite so few students remaining over the holidays, someone had gone to the effort of decorating the space. Unlike what little she had seen of Christmas at the Dursleys’, the decorations here were closer to the original traditions of Yule, and the earthy pine scent of the enormous tree that stood in front of the window was mixed with the sharper smells of orange and spices from the decorations and the table with a modest array of old-fashioned Yule treats already half-demolished.

Someone hugged Rhiannon from behind and she stiffened, causing the back of her head to connect with the nose of whoever it was. They swore, and Rhiannon relaxed at the voice – Fred. Whoops. “Merry Christmas, Rhi,” he greeted her, and that was the invitation for a chorus of similar greetings from her house-mates. “Old Dumbles gave us the day off detention, so it’s free all day. It’s nice out, wanna play a friendly match later? After breakfast and all, there’s usually a decent spread for Christmas,” George contributed while Fred rubbed his nose, and the two of them settled on couches around the fire. Soon others wandered downstairs yawning and stretching, and Rhiannon found herself a little squished between Ron and Hermione with Faye sprawled along the back of the couch behind them. The small crowd of Gryffindor troublemakers formed a loose sort of semicircle facing the yule tree, and an older boy with messy blond hair – Rhiannon recognised him as Bryn Hendry, he’d taken over Keeping for the first couple weeks of Oliver’s punishment before they found a replacement for the rest of term until Oliver was allowed to return to games – took out an oversized red and white fuzzy hat and set himself up by the tree as some sort of Santa impersonation. Someone beaned him in the forehead with a rolled-up piece of paper. “Get on with it!” someone else yelled, eliciting a round of good-natured ribbing and laughter from the small gathering.

Under fire, the fourth-year boy held up his hands and called for a reprieve, grinning as he fished through the pile of presents under the tree. He took out his wand, and Rhiannon barely caught the end of a muttered charm incantation before seeing the pile erupt, and its contents spread out across the room to their owners. Her surprise was cut short as a number of presents piled up around her feet, and she was suffused in warmth. Hermione slung her arm around Rhiannon’s shoulders, and Faye slid down off the back of the couch to perch on the arm next to Ron. The common room was filled with chatter and the muted sounds of tearing paper, and tears welled up in Rhiannon’s eyes as she looked down at the gifts before her. Ron squeezed her hand, and Hermione huddled closer with an eager smile. Rhiannon could only shake her head wordlessly, tears running down her cheeks even as she smiled so widely she thought she’d break.

“We wanted you to have a good Christmas since term’s been so rocky. So we all wrote home about you.” Faye explained, reaching out over Ron to brush Rhiannon’s hair out from where it had caught in her eyes and glasses. Rhi sniffled and huddled into Ron’s shoulder, overwhelmed. In doing so she disturbed a disgruntled Callie, who struggled free of her arms to settle herself between Rhiannon and Hermione. The rest seemed to understand, but nobody in Rhiannon’s small friend-group made any move to unwrap their gifts until she recovered. Hermione held out a parcel from the top of the small stack, and Rhi took it from her when she had settled herself enough to sit back up. It was heavy and boxy, wrapped in green-and-gold paper tied with a gold bow. A small card attached depicted a cat sleeping peacefully amid destroyed Christmas decorations, and Rhiannon laughed as she saw it. She showed it to Callie, and ruffled the long-haired cat’s ears teasingly. “Don’t you go wrecking, yeah?” she murmured, dropping a kiss on the patient animal’s head. The only response was a soft rusty grumble, and Rhiannon set about reading the card before she unwrapped it.

 _Dear Rhiannon,_ it read,  
 _You were lovely to have with us over the summer holidays and we are both very concerned about how you are being treated at school. Your new name is beautiful, thankyou for trusting us with it. Hermione tells us you’ve been stressed between school and sports so we thought this gift might bring you a little downtime. Hermione has already read them and recommended them for you. We are happy for you to stay with us again should you need, for as long as you need.  
_ _With love, Evelyn and Danjuma._

Rhiannon wiped tears from her eyes and carefully tucked the card into a pocket of her dressing gown before carefully unwrapping the gift so as to not damage the paper. Hermione seemed to be holding all of the excitement, and she bounced in place on the couch as Rhiannon revealed her gift. Inside were four small paperback books with beautiful artwork on the covers. _The Song of the Lioness_ , _by Tamora Pierce._ Hermione squeaked and flapped her hands excitedly. “They’re really good! I read them all a couple of years ago and when Mum and Dad asked what to get you for Christmas I thought of them!” she explained, beaming. The cat grumbled at her overexuberant motion and she stopped, embarrassed.

Wonderingly, Rhiannon took up the first one – _Alanna: The First Adventure -_ and read the back cover, then leafed through the first few pages. She bit her lip and hugged it to her chest, that same teary smile still tugging at her cheeks. _‘Thankyou,’_ she mouthed to Hermione, unable to manage the words out loud.

Ron foisted the next gift on her. Unlike the first, it was large, squishy and didn’t have a card, only a small note with her full name printed messily on it in purple ink. As before, Rhiannon opened it carefully while Ron vibrated with anticipation, revealing a home-knitted jumper in green wool. Cautiously, Rhiannon patted at it – sometimes wool was too scratchy, like her school jumper. Ron grinned broadly. “I told Mum, and she made it out of soft wool and washed it special.” he explained proudly. Rhiannon turned it over and unfolded it, revealing a design of a crescent moon knitted on the front and a greased paper package of what smelled like toffee hidden inside, wrapped up in a red-and-gold knitted scarf, and matching gold-accented red fingerless mittens and hat. Callie reached out and kneaded happily at Rhiannon’s thigh where an arm of the jersey lay, and Rhi grinned. It even had the cat seal of approval. She shrugged off her dressing gown and pulled the jersey on over her pyjamas – purple flannelette with flowers on them, another gift from the Grangers previously so she had something for the winter.

The early morning was taken up with unwrapping gifts. Aside from the jersey and books from the Weasleys and Grangers respectively, there were presents from her other friends too. Faye’s family had sent Rhiannon a sturdy pair of girls’ winter boots and a warm coat of red tartan with gold and black in it, made of a heavy woollen outer and lined inside and around the edges with some sort of windproof polyfibre so as not to itch. It had a hood, the outer edge rimmed with what she guessed was rabbit fur. From Parvati and Padma’s family was a beautiful semi-formal summer dress, deep red with gold thread patterning on the under-layer and edging, and more books – _The Hounds of the Mórrígan_ by Pat O’Shea and _Pangur Bán the White Cat, Finnglas of the Horses_ and _Shapeshifter_ by Fay Sampson. According to the small card with the gifts, Padma had recommended the books – she’d noticed Rhiannon’s interest in older Celtic stories. From Emilia’s family were even more books - _Spellhorn_ by Berlie Doherty, _Catwings_ by Ursula Le Guin and _The Fairy Rebel_ by Lynne Reid Banks. Aside from the fiction, there was a historical text on remnants of old Celtic magic in modern British magic-craft that Emilia had thought Rhiannon might be interested in, her gift to Hermione was another book on the same subject. From Morag was a book on Quidditch strategy and safety tactics, as well as a new pair of replacement gloves – these were fingerless, so she didn’t have to wreck them. Ruefully, Rhiannon looked around at the small tower of books she was collecting on the floor, and realised her friends knew her better than she’d thought.

There were other gifts from those she wasn’t as close to – clothes, sweets and the like. But no more of it really stuck out to her until the gift from Neville and his family. According to the letter, he had been worried it would arrive late, and Rhiannon was glad she’d read the card first so she had some idea of what to expect inside. Callie had long departed the couch to play with discarded paper, so Rhiannon had a little free space to set aside the collection she was beginning to amass to focus her full attention on Neville’s gift. Her hands shook as she unwrapped it, and she bit at her lip in the anticipation. Inside was a small framed replica of a painting, depicting a red-haired young woman of seventeen or eighteen. She was dressed in blue, and sang soundlessly before an audience depicted only as shadows. Rhiannon’s eyes welled up with tears, and she ran her fingers over the painting. It was signed _F. L._ , which Rhiannon presumed from the letter must have been the initials of Neville’s father. Her heart ached in an unfamiliar way, reading her friend’s untidy script again.

 _Rhi,  
I told my mum and dad about you. I didn’t really have friends before and I was excited to tell them. When I told Dad what you changed your name to, he lit up. I’ve never seen him smile. My nan helped him find this, he wanted you to have it. It’s a replica of a painting he made of her end-of-year performance, before they all left school. Nan says he gave them the original for their wedding. She says thankyou, but I’m not sure why. Tell Hermione thanks for the Herbology manual and the terrarium kit from me.   
Merry Christmas,  
_ _Neville_

Rhiannon breathed a heavy sigh, stroking the small painting again. Unlike the Hogwarts portraits, it wasn’t sentient although it did move. It was more like a silent snapshot of time, a memory, and while Neville had told them only a little about his parents Rhiannon had some understanding of the weight of the gesture. She leaned against Ron for support, and Hermione squeezed one of her hands.

Now there was just one gift left. It was wrapped in simple brown paper tied with string, and Rhiannon could see no card – her name was printed directly on the paper in a looping scrawled script. Just as with the other gifts – the wrappings for which she had neatly folded and kept for re-use – she opened it with care, folding the paper and bundling it up in her dressing gown for easy transport back to the dormitory. Inside was an amorphous pool of... nothing. It couldn’t be nothing, but her eyes skated off of it, refusing to perceive it fully. Someone gasped, and Ron grabbed it out of Rhiannon’s lap. She went to grab it back and recoiled, the fabric felt oil-slick and _awful_ in her hands. “Nope!” she yelped, scooting sideways into Hermione. “That’s an invisibility cloak,” someone whispered. Their tone was awed, Rhiannon couldn’t really see the appeal in something she couldn’t touch. “It’s all slidey so I don’t think it’s demiguise hair, is it charmed?” she mused to herself. “Try it on, try it on!” someone else called out, Rhiannon guessed probably a Weasley twin. She shook her head. “You do it Ron,” she suggested, wringing her hands to get the unpleasant feeling off of them. With a shrug, Ron obliged. He stood and shook the remnants of giftwrapping and ribbons off his pyjamas, wearing his own hand-knitted sweater – maroon, with a sparkly brown ball resembling a Quaffle on the front – and slung the cloak around his shoulders. As he pulled it closed at the front, his body below the neck blinked out of sight and the common-room gathering gasped collectively as Ron’s head bobbed strangely in midair. After a few moments Ron whipped it off again and bundled it up, shaking himself. He looked thoroughly disturbed by the sensation. “Oi, it dropped something when you put it on,” one of his brothers pointed out. So it had, and Ron collected the small folded-up parchment and handed both that and the cloak back to Rhiannon with a shudder.

Rhi curled her lip at the cloak and pulled her hands into the sleeves of her jersey to handle it, tucking it into her dressing gown along with the cards and wrapping paper. Then, curiously, she turned over the parchment and unfolded it. It was lettered in spidery green cursive, and her heart sank as she read it.

 _Harry,_ it began and immediately Rhiannon was discomforted.  
 _Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time you took up his legacy. Use it well, and think on that.  
_ _A merry Christmas to you._

Rhiannon shuddered and crumpled the note up, her hands shaking and knuckles pale as she tried to squash everything it made her feel. She shook her head and shoved it at Faye, whose face darkened as she read it. “Well, fuck that. Lemme help you get this stuff up to the dorms and then we’ll go eat, yeah?” she offered. Rhi agreed gratefully and with her friends’ help she got her things upstairs and got changed into warm clothes for the day, thankful for the new coat and boots from Faye’s family, and Mrs Weasley’s knitted gifts.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, and only a few of the Great Hall fires were lit so Rhiannon let Callie into her coat for mutual warmth. The cat was a little too big to fit easily now, but the coat also was a little big on Rhiannon so it worked. She ate hastily, feeling uncomfortable at the same table as the teachers, and hurried back upstairs to get her Quidditch gear as soon as she was done.

As they had a day off, the students spent most of it outside. The weather was unusually nice albeit very cold, and they played an informal Quidditch tournament using school gear for those who didn’t have their own. That took up most of the day aside from the grand Christmas dinner at midday, and Rhiannon was pleasantly exhausted and full as she headed back to the common room after tea that evening. She found the common room taken over by blankets and pillows, several cats including her own in the best places around the fire. Hermione was waiting, it looked like she’d dragged the blankets down from their dormitory to form a bit of a nest in front of one of the couches. Some others were with her, and she had her brand new copy of _The Hobbit_ . “Annabel taught me this cool spell at dinner, it’s one of the elements of making a Howler only without _Sonorus_ , the Amplifying Charm. Basically we can get the book to read itself, and the others said they’d be interested so... want to camp out down here with us?” she offered, patting the blanket nest beside herself. Rhiannon shuffled over awkwardly, dropping her damp coat over the back of the couch and settling down in front of the fire.

Hermione took out her wand and concentrated, encouraged by the red-haired fifth-year Annabel Keen. _“Loquitibus,”_ she announced clearly, rapping her wand sharply on the book which was open to the first chapter.

“ _In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”_

A clear, unfaltering voice accented similarly to Hermione’s read the first lines out, and while Rhiannon had already read the story she smiled at the familiar feeling it brought. She settled in comfortably beside Hermione and all of them listened to the book as it read itself, falling quiet as they fell asleep themselves somewhere around the point of Bilbo leaving the Shire.


	18. Unicorn Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon and her friends serve the final part of their holiday detention, and accompany Hagrid into the forbidden forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, as you may have been able to guess earlier on I've done away with JK's shonky timeline. And with the addition of this chapter, this is officially longer than the original Philosopher's Stone. The rest of the in-book school year is mine to do with as I please! We're looking at twenty seven chapters all up, before I move on to Chamber of Secrets. Originally this happened at the end of the book with a whole bunch of unnecessary clutter leading up to it, but I've decided to switch stuff up and so here you go. Now the rest of the year's a wild card for you all.   
> Something I *really* should have cleared up earlier... This uses the same time as Kaleidoscopic Grangers. I was originally a bit woolly on dates and times so I've gone back and tightened it all up. Rhiannon started Hogwarts in 2001. I'd been tossing up between using the original time and that one, and decided to shift it to make research easier - there's not a lot of data on what moon phases were when in the 90s, etc, just makes it all easier on me.   
> Anyway.  
> Content warning for: homophobic slur, panic attack.  
> Other than that, enjoy!

The rest of the holiday ambled by peaceably. In their spare time, Ron started teaching Rhiannon to play wizarding chess and it started to feel like the school was making more work for them to do out of spite. A note came for Rhiannon and her friends around midday on New Years’ Eve, in Hagrid’s distinctly untidy handwriting.   
_Dumbledore wants you_ _lot_ _to help me out tonight feeding animals and all. Dress warm, I’ll get you_ _all_ _from the castle at eight. Hagrid._  
So the cluster of Gryffindors waited nervously in the courtyard for Hagrid late in the evening, shivering in the cold and huddling together as if by some sort of herd instinct. When Hagrid arrived they clung to him for warmth, sharing belated Christmas wishes and chattering amongst themselves. Aside from Rhiannon, Hermione, Faye and Ron there were also the Weasley twins and a handful of Slytherins standing apart from them; namely Draco Malfoy and his friends Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, and Aaron Prentiss. On noticing the last, Rhiannon shifted closer to Hagrid who scowled at the boy in question. 

“All right you lot, no more chat. Let’s head off.” he announced, shooing them off ahead out of the courtyard and down the hill to his cabin at the edge of the forest, leaving a deep track carved into the snow in their wake.

When they arrived, Hagrid handed out various sacks of what smelt like animal feed and separated them into groups. “Alright, Fred, you’ve helped out before. You mind Hermione, Faye and them three-” here he gestured to Crabbe, Goyle and Prentiss. “Don’t clown around, feed the critters around the house. Check on the mooncalves’ food, don’t let em out – they’re still frisky after t’ full moon. _Don’t_ bother the bowtruckle in the roof, be polite to the fairies, and if you’ve got your hide gloves on ye, Fred, rub some chili powder on the salamander in the crate inside, it’s got the rot. Pinch the Niffler next to it and I’ll have ye back for the next term. Rhiannon, the rest of you, come with me.” he continued on, gesturing for the three Gryffindors and Malfoy to follow him. “We’ve some unicorns to check. Should be quick, feed the foals and that.” With that he picked up his oversized crossbow and clipped a quiver of bolts to his belt. At Ron’s querying glance, he grunted noncommittally. “Jus’ in case,” was all he’d say on the matter.

Rhiannon fell into step with Ron and George, Malfoy following begrudgingly a few paces behind them as they pushed their way through snow behind Hagrid, forcing a path into the outskirts of the forest. She clung tightly to Ron’s hand in the dark, but released it and gasped in wonder as Hagrid led them to a large clearing, ringed thickly by trees and lightly coated in snow. She would have missed it entirely had Hagrid not parted a thicket and led them through, but once inside she was enraptured by its’ inhabitants. _Unicorns_. She’d only ever seen pictures, and they weren’t at all delicate as some artists seemed to think. There were three adults in the clearing, two taller than the third, and all were sturdy and thick-coated in the midwinter chill, brilliant silver-white against the dull grey of the snow. That wasn’t to say they weren’t beautiful. To Rhiannon, the real thing looked, well, real – like the essence of a horse of the highlands, as if ordinary horses were only dilutions or pale reflections. Not that she had seen many more of them either, but there was something about the unicorns that captured the imagination.

Hagrid smiled, and handed Rhiannon a bucket. He passed one each to George and Ron too, and gave them all a shove. “No running, keep your voices low. Some think they only like lasses but that’s just plain nonsense, they just like quiet. Spread out, they’ll squabble otherwise. Malfoy, grab this, c’m’ere.” he explained for them, dragging Malfoy along with him to a low shelter structure in the centre of the clearing.

Hesitantly, Rhiannon approached the smaller of the three unicorns, head lowered shyly and her free arm tucked in to her side. She had read a little about unicorns and knew they were easily startled, and she didn’t want to unintentionally appear a threat. Carefully she set the bucket down and backed away a few paces, she didn’t want to crowd the creature by accident. With a snort, the unicorn ambled forward and dipped its’ shaggy head into the bucket, watchful eyes still on Rhiannon over the rim. It snorted again and flicked one tufted ear, as if giving Rhiannon permission and, wonderingly, she stepped forward to stroke the creature’s mane. Its coarse hair caught in her woollen half-mittens and she giggled, delighted and surprised, as the unicorn peacefully went on eating in spite of her touch as she brushed clumped snow from its’ shaggy form.

Hagrid’s voice, pitched low and rough with concern, disturbed the fascinated students from their charges. “One’s missing, th’ other little ‘un. He’s usually shy, I thought he might be in here with the foals... but somethin’s been takin’ em, he’s the second now. C’mon you lot, you can help me look. Keep your eyes peeled for hoofprints, caught hairs or blood – looks a bit like quicksilver; and pipe up if you see any.”

Apprehensively, Rhiannon patted the unicorn one last time and fell in beside Hagrid. She peered up at him anxiously. “Ww-will he be alright?” she asked, her voice feeling very weak in the heavy night air. Hagrid shook his head helplessly, adjusting the halter slung over his shoulder and gripping his crossbow more tightly as he did so. “No clue. Haven’t found th’ other one.” he replied gruffly. One of his big gloved hands squeezed Rhiannon’s bony shoulder briefly, and she managed a fragile smile. As far as detentions went, a night-time field trip with Hagrid wasn’t so bad.

The six of them – Hagrid, George, Ron and Rhiannon, Malfoy and Fang – made their way deeper into the forest, picking up the occasional sign as they went as there was far less snow beneath the thick trees. Hoofprints were most common, and Hagrid hefted his crossbow grimly. A rustle in the brittle undergrowth set them all on edge and Hagrid gestured for them all to huddle in behind him, as from the trees stepped – a horse? A man? To the waist, a light-skinned freckled man with red hair and intricate blue tattoos, but below was a horse’s powerful chestnut-haired body.

“Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” Hagrid said in relief. “How are yeh?” He bowed politely, and strode forward to shake the centaur – Ronan’s – hand.

“Good evening to you, Rubeus,” said Ronan. He had a melancholy sort of voice, belying his fierce appearance. “Would you have shot me? I thought better.”

Hagrid shook his head and lowered the crossbow. “Nah. My apologies. Can’t be too careful out here – unicorns been goin’ missin’.” His expression soured, and he visibly cast around for a new topic. “These ‘ere are students from the castle. This is Rhiannon Potter and a couple Weasleys, Ron and George. Oh an’, Draco Malfoy I guess. Kids, meet Ronan, he’s – what’s the word? A sort of teacher for the herd.”

Rhiannon, Ron and George all bowed politely, George with an elaborate flourish. Malfoy hung back, scowling, and Rhiannon was quietly glad he had nothing to say. “Students, hmm. Do you learn much, up at the school?” Ronan asked, leaning forward on a tall knotted staff that Rhiannon hadn’t noticed before. Rhi shared a glance with Ron and George and shrugged. “A-a, a bit – me ‘n Ron are still new,” Rhiannon replied timidly.

“A bit. Well, that’s better than nothing,” Ronan said with a doleful sigh. He tilted his head back and gazed up at the sky through a gap in the canopy. “Mars is bright tonight.”

Hagrid grimaced, and shook his head. “Yeah, t’is the season n’ all.” he said, sparing a quick glance at the sky. “Listen, I’m glad we’ve run into yeh, Ronan, we’re lookin’ for missin’ unicorns. I’m worried ‘e might be hurt – you seen anythin’?”

Ronan didn’t answer immediately, his attention still fixed on the heavens. Unblinking, he stared upwards, then sighed again. “Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said, bowing his head and crossing his free hand over his chest sorrowfully. “So it has been for ages past, so it is now.”

He and Hagrid shared a quiet moment, until Hagrid broke it. “Right, but have you seen anythin’, Ronan? Anythin’ unusual?”

Once again, Ronan took a while to answer. Even when his eyes were on them, the centaur seemed light years away. “The Forest hides many secrets, Rubeus, you know this.” he replied at last.

A movement in the trees behind Ronan had Hagrid raising his weapon again, only to lower it as a second centaur approached them through the trees, black-haired and wilder-looking where Ronan was wistful. “’lo, Bane. All right?” Hagrid asked, a little stiffer than he had been with Ronan.

“Good evening, Rubeus. We are well enough, I hope you are also?” Bane replied. Hagrid nodded. “Well enough. Look, I’ve jus’ been askin’ Ronan, you seen anythin’ odd in here lately? Only there’s a unicorn missin’ – would you know anythin’ about it?”

Bane shook his head, and took a position beside Ronan, staring up at the stars. “Mars is bright tonight,” he replied simply.

“So I’m told,” Hagrid grumbled. “Well, if either of ye’s do see anythin’, let me know wouldn’t you? We’ll be off now, then. Leave you to your stars.” He beckoned the students forward, and they headed further into the forest.

“Are there many centaurs in the forest, Hagrid?” Ron asked curiously. Hagrid grunted, pushing aside a fallen branch with his boot as they carried on. “Eh, a fair few. Herds’re typically about ten to fifty members, and the forest borders on the biggest centaur domain in Britain. They’re a decent lot, keep to ‘emselves mostly, but they’re good enough about turnin’ up if ever I want a word. They’re deep, mind. They know things... jus’ don’ let on much. Guess they think we should figure it out for ourselves.”

Rhiannon fell a few steps behind Hagrid, struggling to see her footing in the darkness, and when she looked up, she could see only Malfoy’s gleaming blond hair in the low light. A low whine came from somewhere beside her – Fang. Her breath hitched, and she turned in a frantic circle, one hand springing in and out as she fought back panic. Malfoy didn’t look any better, even the derisive curl of his lip as he witnessed Rhiannon’s panic had the air of something painted on thin glass.

“Ho-hh-hhhfffgrrr,” Rhiannon tried, giving up and wringing her hands as she tried to get her thoughts in order, frustrated and panicked in equal measure. She tried again, plotting her words out in advance. “H-how did we, did you see where they went?” Her senses flooded and flickered, the musty odour of leaf-litter and damp cold crowding her. Draco shrugged unhelpfully, his pale blue eyes wide with fear. Rhiannon rushed forward a few steps, trying desperately to see where the others had gone, and was stopped by Fang. She coughed and fell to her knees, hugging her arms close to herself. Someone – Malfoy – grabbed her shoulder roughly, and when she opened her mouth to protest he covered it with his hand and shook his head.

Satisfied she wouldn’t scream, Malfoy removed his hand from her mouth “Look, I’m not dying in a forest with Faggy Potter and a dumb mutt,” he hissed. “Get it together – look, over there-” he added, gesturing through a gap in the undergrowth.

Something brilliant white lay gleaming on the ground, illuminated by a stray moonbeam. They crept closer, Rhiannon’s hands flying up to cover her mouth as she recognised it. It was their missing unicorn, and he was dead. Rhi had never seen anything so pointlessly sad. The unicorn’s sturdy legs lay at strange angles where he had fallen against the roots of a tree, and his thick mane was spread out against the roots and dark leaf-litter. A terrible wound marked the animal’s side, and blood like mercury spilled out onto the ground.

Rhiannon took another step towards the fallen unicorn when an eerie slithering sound froze her in her tracks. A bush on the edge of the hollow quivered. Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came creeping across the ground like some stalking beast – human by its’ clothing, something terribly other by its’ movement. Malfoy grabbed Rhiannon’s arm and they stood, transfixed with horror. The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, and lowered its’ head over the wound in his side. A horrible slurping noise reached the two students, and Rhiannon realised dimly that it was drinking the unicorn’s blood.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted, as did Fang. The hooded being raised their head and looked right at Rhiannon, front stained with silver gore. Black and white sparks flickered in Rhiannon’s vision and she clutched at her scar as it surged with pain. She fell to her knees, and the blood-stained figure got to their feet and prowled towards Rhiannon, again with that slithering predatory gait.

The creature reached Rhiannon, and for a moment she saw bone-white hands grasping at her wrists. It was as if the pain from her scar set her nerves alight, scorched into her brain, and she pitched sideways unaware that she was screaming, desperate to escape somehow as her vision flickered and darkened. In her dulled state Rhiannon heard hooves behind them and she clawed at the ground, dragging herself backwards away as something jumped clean over her.

Rhiannon sobbed and hugged herself, wracked with pain, twitching and jerking involuntarily and fearful even in the sudden absence of the threat. The commotion stilled, and she waited anxiously in the silence as slowly she too fell still. Rhiannon felt the hoofbeats rather than heard them, as something else approached. “Are you alright, girl?” someone asked, their voice coming as if from a great distance. Rhiannon shook her head and curled up tighter. Leaves crunched, something very heavy drew nearer and Rhiannon squeaked and began to sob again as she was lifted into the air. Wiry hair and rough cloth pricked at her tearstained face, and she whimpered and turned away, trying to find some reprieve.

The unseen rescuer went stiff, and Rhiannon felt calloused fingertips run briefly across her still-throbbing scar even as they moved. “You are the Potter heir,” a low voice said. “I am Firenze, and this forest is not safe for you.” Dimly Rhiannon realised her rescuer had to be another centaur, and their accent was very different to Ronan and Bane’s – melodic and softer, and they pronounced their name as three rhythmic syllables of equal length.

The air around them grew lighter, and Rhiannon felt snowflakes fall on her upturned face. They had to be near the edge of the forest. More hoofbeats layered over Firenze’s, and Rhiannon gasped as the centaur slid to a halt.

“Firenze!” a strident voice thundered. “What are you doing! Have you no shame?” Rhiannon felt a low growl against her ear. “Do you not realise who this is, Bane?” Firenze snapped. “This is the Potter girl – the stars were right the first time after all. There is something in this Forest that does not belong, and -”

Bane, whose harsh voice Rhiannon now recognised from before, cut Firenze off. “Something? You’re carrying that something,” he interrupted, his tone derisive. “Remember, seer Firenze, we are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what is to come in the movements of the planets?”

Unlike Firenze themself, Bane pronounced the name as two syllables with emphasis on the first, and his tone became distrustful. Rhiannon felt her rescuer shake their head. “Those are the customs of your herd, Bane. I swore no such oath.” they replied calmly.

Rhiannon didn’t catch anything of the argument that ensued until a third voice chimed in, the melancholy tone instantly recognisable. “I’m sure Firenze thought that they acted for the best,” Ronan said, attempting a placating tone. The only response was a snort from Bane. “For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned with what has been foretold – it is not our business to intervene, nor to chase around after human concerns like common mules!” Bane snapped.

A dry scrape of rock and frost sounded from somewhere beneath them, and Rhiannon felt the tremor in Firenze’s muscles as they held back the worst of their anger. She got the sense this was only the latest in a series of old arguments. “Did you not see that unicorn? And the other, two weeks past?” Firenze bellowed, and Rhiannon clutched at the centaur’s shoulders as he reared a little. “Do you not understand why it was killed? Or have the stars not let you in on that? I set myself against the evil lurking in this Forest, Bane, with humans alongside me if I must – anything that would attack an eleven year-old girl is a threat we cannot ignore.”

With that, Firenze whirled around and galloped away, Rhiannon clinging to them as best she could as they left the forest behind. She didn’t understand what was going on. “W-wW-Why’s Bane so angry?” she asked when Firenze slowed back to a walk, slurring her words together a little as she struggled to find them. “Whas, w-hw- what was that thing, you saved me from, anyway?”

Rhiannon felt the centaur’s answer first as a rumble in their throat. “Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is used for?” they asked by way of an answer. Rhiannon began to shake her head, then reconsidered the question. “R-Rhiannon, it’s Rhiannon, not... And yes. It can keep you alive as long as you have access to it, at a cost -”

Firenze nodded, she felt the movement as their muscles shifted. “Indeed. The blood of a unicorn will keep one alive, even if they are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. Whoever resorts to such will live but a half-life, cursed, from the moment it touches their lips. It is a monstrous thing to slay a unicorn, and those who do have destroyed something pure and defenceless for their own gain.” they explained, their melodic voice turning grim and flat. “Who would be that desperate?” Rhiannon asked, wondering aloud. “If you’d be cursed forever, death’s better isn’t it?”

“It is,” Firenze agreed tiredly, “unless all you need is to stay alive long enough to find something else, something that will bring you back to full strength and power – something that will mean you can never die. Perhaps something that should never have been made. Rhiannon Potter, do you know what is hidden in the school at this very moment?”

Rhiannon shook her head, her mind whirring. Fluffy had been guarding _something_ , she knew that much, but no clue as to _what._ “Perhaps that is better... many of us spoke against bringing it to the castle. We knew what danger it would bring.” Firenze explained, their voice still grim and weary.

“Rhiannon! Rhi, are you alright?”

They were interrupted suddenly by Ron’s voice, cracking a little on the words. Firenze halted, and Rhiannon heard others nearby – Ron wouldn’t be out alone. “I-I’m ffffine,” Rhiannon managed. Certainly not the truth, but she wasn’t injured. “Can’t see. Hagrid?” she asked, hating the desperate way her voice trailed up as she searched for some sound of him. “Here, lass.” Hagrid replied, his rough voice instantly reassuring her. Rhiannon nodded to herself, taking a deep breath and scripting out her words. “Th-The unicorn. Dead. Malfoy ran. Ssome, something in there, it-” she trailed off, coughing and flinching at the memory of the pain. Hagrid swore, and Rhiannon yelped as again she was lifted into the air. This time she was placed on her own two feet and she felt around for someone familiar. “Rhi, here,” Ron murmured, and Rhiannon fumbled until she found his arm, which she then clung to tightly. “Alright, we’re done here now. I’m gonna go find that Malfoy kid and me damn dog, you lot go fetch the others from my house an’ head on up to the castle. George, no antics, look after Rhiannon or I’ll have yer hide. Go on, get,” Hagrid said, before stomping off through the snow into the treeline – at least, that’s what Rhiannon guessed by the amount of noise he made.

Guided by Ron, Rhiannon made her way back to Hagrid’s house, stumbling occasionally in the snow. She existed in a sort of half-daze, numb and shaking, barely even registering the presence of her other friends when they joined back up at the cabin. Her numbness only began to subside when they reached the castle, and, surrounded by her friends, made a slow and sodden path up to the common room. Hermione and Faye helped her into bed and she lay in the darkness for hours, endlessly turning over the facts of the night without putting anything new together, until eventually she gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realised this is the fastest I've gotten out a sequential update in a while. Oops. Anyway, hope you enjoyed - I certainly did, especially now I've no need to hold to her structure anymore. Chapters 19-23ish are free game for me!


	19. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon begins her second term at Hogwarts. Feeling the pressure, she struggles to sleep and starts wandering the castle at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, the excitement of the last chapter was unwarranted - I still have one last bit of canon to contend with before I can get on with breezing through until the end of year showdown. Bleh. And it was like pulling teeth again because I'd much rather be writing Easter fluff. Anyway. Enjoy. Chapter twenty (*holy shit) is another fluffy one, and then it's single digits chapters until the end of the first book of the fic!  
> Housekeeping stuff: We hit 2.5k hits, holy fuck, and we're now pushing 75k words. I'm sort of terrified of my own hyperfixation powers at this point.   
> No content warnings for this chapter that I can think of.

After the near miss at New Years’, the last of the holidays flew past. Rhiannon felt as if a rug had been pulled out from under her feet, as suddenly she faced the year 2002 and less than six months until the end of the school year. The pressure in schooltime ramped up and Rhiannon grew sleepless and stressed as she settled back into her routine of schoolwork and sports. Her best subjects were still primarily Charms and Transfiguration, she did competently in Potions theory but consistently poorly in the practicals due to nerves. According to the first-term report, she was an apt History of Magic student but too ‘politically-minded’ in class, affecting her marks. Defence Against the Dark Arts was a joke of a class, she was forced to admit. Rhi had wanted to give shy Professor Quirrell a chance, but now almost half-way through the school year there was still no consistent curriculum and she learned more from her textbook than the professor. 

In the new year, Oliver was released from his first-term punishment and the Gryffindor team did better in their weekly games with on-field leadership than they had in the first term. Still, Rhiannon had no opportunity to coast and she went into the game March 3rd tense and cautious. She was thankful for the new gloves now that it was finally warm enough to discard the full-length ones. 

The Quidditch game of March  3 rd was the quickest Rhiannon had ever played, lasting under half an hour. She received a scolding from Oliver for not giving the Chasers more time to accumulate points before catching the Snitch, but it was a win for Gryffindor over Hufflepuff nonetheless. Hufflepuff’s Seeker was also the captain, Leila McCloskey, and Rhiannon was both intimidated and flattered when the older girl congratulated her on the game. 

Between school, sports and her problems with some of the Hogwarts residents, it was an incredibly stressed, sleepless Rhiannon who took to wandering the corridors at night. Sometimes she spent hours at night in the library, others in the Astronomy Tower staring at the constellations in search of some clue to the future. One night she wandered the second floor aimlessly, dodging Caretaker Filch and his lantern easily enough as she had become familiar with his rounds. Her slippered feet began to tread the familiar path to the library when some instinct tugged at her, diverting her attention from the library’s towering archway to a space further down the corridor. A door stood ajar, and that same instinct that drove Rhiannon away from the library nudged her inside.

It appeared to be a disused classroom. Desks and benches were stacked neatly against the walls and an upturned waste basket lay to one side, but Rhiannon’s attention was immediately captured by the room’s only other meaningful inhabitant. A great mirror that stretched to the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet and propped up by a third in shadows. In a room of dust and discarded rubbish baskets, it did not belong – in fact, it was so gaudy that it appeared it had been put here just to keep it out of the way.

Entranced, Rhiannon padded closer in her fuzzy slippers, until she could read the inscription carved in a strict, formal script across the top of the mirror.  _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ . The words made no sense to her and she stepped closer still, one hand outstretched as if by touching it she could glean its’ secrets. And all at once Rhiannon’s thin, disheveled form was not alone in the mirror’s impassive face. She stood before a neat room, evidently a bedroom – it had to be hers. Her glasses were unbroken and straight, her hair was neat, she looked healthy in a way the real Rhiannon had never had the chance to. A card rested half-open in Rhiannon’s mirror-self’s hands, the first line clearly visible –  _to our dear daughter Rhiannon_ . Rhi’s hands flew to her mouth and tears sprang to her eyes. Someone else stepped into the frame, and her features were blurred and incomplete but the waterfall of red hair marked her as Rhiannon’s mother, Lily. The mirror Rhiannon was enveloped in a hug by Lily and joined by a man she dimly recognised as James Potter, and gradually the background of the bedroom was filled up by others, some faceless – all that was clear was their expressions. They were there for her. 

Overwhelmed, Rhiannon stepped back and turned away, and immediately the image blinked out of the mirror. It was nothing but a featureless sheet of glass once again. She sat down cross-legged on the dusty floor facing the mirror, and once again her image appeared in it. Almost the same image, all that changed was Rhi’s position, and tears ran down her face as she reached out a hand to the image as if by touching it she could make it real.

Rhiannon sat there before the mirror for hours, absorbed in the life of her mirror-self as she watched the mirror-Rhiannon go about her day even as the hours of the night slipped into early morning. Eventually she roused herself from her fixation, tearing her eyes away from the image of her family and stretching out stiffened limbs. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, glancing at them one last time before she slipped back upstairs to the Gryffindor common room.

___________________________________________________________________

The reactions of Rhiannon’s friends were mixed, to say the least. “You could’ve _told_ me, before you went wandering the castle by yourself,” Hermione grumbled. She didn’t seem angry, only worried, but still Rhiannon felt as if she had let her friend down somehow. Ron was distrustful of the idea of such a mirror, and reiterated advice from his father about enchanted objects, and worried for Rhiannon’s health after contact with it. Faye and Parvati too were less than impressed, but they at least were more understanding than Ron about why such a thing would have had such an effect on Rhi. Only Neville had no admonishments for her, just his quiet support.

So Rhiannon stumbled through the next day on very little sleep as she had the past few months, but this time with the promise of seeing her family again once the day was done. As before she tried to slip out of the Gryffindor common room in the dead of night, clad in purple flowery pyjamas and fluffy kitten slippers, but this time when she got down the stairs from the dormitories Rhi found her friends waiting for her. None of them seemed particularly surprised to see her there, and she struggled to explain herself. Seeing that there was no chance they would convince her otherwise, they – Faye, Ron, Neville, Parvati and Hermione – instead decided someone should accompany her on her night-time wanderings. Ron was first to volunteer, and so the two of them left the Gryffindor common room and found their way downstairs to the library, where Rhiannon retraced her steps back to the room in which the mirror had stood.

Rhiannon felt a sort of reluctance to show her friend the vision she had seen in the mirror, and hung back from it. The night before had been private, here she felt as if she stood under a microscope. So instead she let Ron inspect the mirror, wishing for the first time since coming to Hogwarts that she could just be alone. Ron’s brows knit, and he studied the inscription in the mirror’s frame. _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._ Just as it had been the night before, words that made no sense to Rhiannon.

“I show... not your... face, but... your hearts – desire. I show not your face but your hearts desire.” Ron muttered, his tongue sticking out one side of his mouth as he concentrated on the inscription, then reading it aloud more confidently once he’d figured it out. He shook his head and stepped back, arms crossed defensively. “That’s it, I don’t trust it. Anything that can see something that deep... it’s not safe, Rhiannon, we shouldn’t be here.”

And that was the end of that, as far as Ron was concerned. He shepherded Rhiannon back upstairs to the common room, and the next few nights when she tried again she was foiled by watchful friends. Eventually Rhi gave up, and lay awake sleepless in the dark for nights on end. She didn’t try again until mid-way through March, and this time found no-one downstairs to stop her.

Thinking herself safe, Rhiannon relaxed somewhat as she pushed aside the sleeping portrait and so was taken totally unawares, tripping directly over Neville who was curled up on the floor outside. Then followed a muffled exchange in which both tried to justify themselves, ending in muted rueful laughter as both realised their own hypocrisy. Neville had been planning to visit the mirror himself but lost his nerve and forgot the password to get back in. The impasse was solved by an agreement that they would instead visit the mirror together.

So the two eleven-year-olds crept away from the slumbering portrait that guarded Gryffindor tower and made their cautious way down-stairs, Neville’s pudgy hand firmly clasped in Rhiannon’s scarred and bony one. The two of them avoided the patrolling prefects and finally entered the dim, dusty room where the mirror was kept. Both were hesitant, tentative to move closer, and eventually they chose to stand together. Both entranced, neither seeing the same image nor anything outside the mirror they stood so close to, drawn forward as if a single step could carry them through.

“Back again, Miss Potter, Master Longbottom?”

Rhiannon was shocked from her reverie and whirled around, feeling as though her blood ran with ice. Seated behind them on one of the desks against the wall was none other than Minerva McGonagall. Rhiannon felt Neville’s trembling hand creep into hers, and a hot flush of shame flooded through her. They had been so desperate to get to the mirror they must have walked straight past the Professor. There was no use in denying it, Professor McGonagall looked as if she had been seated there for some time. “I-I, I didn’t see you, p-pr-professor. S-s-sorry, um. We’ll- we’ll go back to bed.” Rhiannon stammered, averting her gaze so that she didn’t have to see the disappointed expression she imagined McGonagall wore.

“No, you won’t. Come, sit.” Minerva replied, and she shifted herself from the desk to a position cross-legged on the floor. The professor indicated the floor before herself with her cane, and the two students sat down hurriedly, sharing a worried glance between them. The professor always read as stern, and both worried that she would be furious. “It is a sorry thing, how short-sighted desire can make us. I imagine I know something of what you both saw. It is only natural for two such as yourselves to have been drawn in by the enticements of the Mirror of Erised – that is its’ charm, and its’ danger.” the professor went on, her voice losing its’ admonishing edge. Rhiannon squeezed Neville’s hand gently and looked up, peering at Professor McGonagall from under an untidy hanging section of her hair. Were they not to be punished?

“This mirror shows neither knowledge nor truth. Some of the greatest wizards of our age and past have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen as you were, or been driven mad, uncertain of what it shows is real or even possible. It is a cruel spell that plays upon our most fundamental natures as human beings, and had I known... a disused classroom is no place to hide such a thing.

It is a failing on the part of myself and Hogwarts that either of you ever came into contact with this artifact. It will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Rhiannon, Neville, and I must ask that you do not seek it out again.”

Rhiannon’s lips trembled, and she dashed away tears with her free hand as the professor spoke. She opened her mouth to protest, and Minerva shook her head. “No, lass. I know why you sought it. And that is precisely why it is so dangerous to you, and Neville alike. I’ve seen you both struggling this past term. Come, both of you, and I’ll have Madam Pomfrey sort out a sleep potion – don’t tell me you don’t need it, you look more haggard than my N.E.W.T. students.“

There was no arguing – Minerva McGonagall was kind, but as implacable as ever, and the two let themselves be shepherded out of the room and across to the other side of the second floor to the hospital wing. Before she left them, the Professor extracted a promise from them both to _talk_ to her should they be so adrift again, and Rhiannon fell asleep staring at charmed stars cast upon the dark ceiling of the hospital wing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, as I said: pulling teeth. Next chapter is planned Easter holiday fluff, total deviation from canon and a small planned surprise that some may or may not have seen coming - I think I've kept it under my hat well enough. Please comment if you enjoyed! Thankyou for reading!


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